"Then," said Gud, "you shall have it, for am I not Gud the Great?"
"If you are, why do you not inspire these men who are writing this book about you to put something into the book that no one can understand? Indeed, if you cannot do that I shall be tempted to believe that you are not Gud, but only a mere figment of fancy conceived in the brains of two conceited young egotists who are seeking a cheap notoriety by shocking decent people with blasphemous literature."
"I fear you are right."
"Oh," cried the woman, "then you admit that you are what I said?"
"Not at all. I merely admit that he is what you said."
"Really, Gud, you ought to have had some well-known writer do this book about you—some one who had already been suppressed, or, better yet, a Russian."
"Who are the Russians?" asked Gud.
"They are the supremists in dancing, the theorists in politics, the idealists in economics and the realists in literature. But you are romantic, aren't you, Gud?"
"I think so. At least I feel so—did you always wear your hair that way?"
"Oh, no, indeed. You see, I used to wear it shorn like that of a boy, for that fashion was once the insignia of the female intelligence. But all the fat bankers' wives aped us, so now our only chance for distinction is to ape our mothers, and I wear my mother's hair. See, I will take it off and show it to you."