"Perhaps," she spoke dubiously.
"And if you were in my book, would it not then contain something that no one could understand?"
"Do you mean it?" she faltered.
"Yes, dear child, for whom all writers write, if it will bring me one more smile from those ever-changing eyes of beauty—I will see that you are in 'The Book of Gud'—if I have to catch these blasphemous scribes and pound their heads together!"
"For that promise," said the iridescent lady, "I could love you forever and a day. To think that we two should be in a book together! Just me and Gud!
"And now," she added, in a lower tone, "I'll confess to you why I want to be in the book. You see, I am supposed to be a literary character and one has to be in a book to be a literary character, you know."
"Yes, yes, I know. I suppose it will make me one also. But now I must hasten to seek out these mundane scribes, and see to it that they put you in my book—for they have it about finished."
"Which one of them do you propose to have write me into the book?"
"Which one would you prefer?"
"I hardly know," she said. "That fellow Spain is a woman hater, and I am afraid he will say something unkind about me. But that Hersey poet prostitutes his art to flatter women. He has an exaggerated idea of the importance of the sex consciousness in an intellectual woman's life. Really, it is a choice between two evils."