“My dear lady, it seems to me something far better: it seems to me a rather beautiful idea. So I play with it sometimes. Now I dismiss that idea, out of deference to your proverbial wisdom: and I ask what far more gratifying and uplifting wisdom, ma’am, you may be writing in your black-covered book?” “Oh, yes, my book!” said the Sphinx, with the livelier interest natural to an author. “You find me just now in some difficulty with my book. You conceive there has to be an opening paragraph. It would not be possible to leave out the first paragraph—” “I can see that. I can recall no book in which there was not a first paragraph.” “—And this paragraph ought to sum up all things, so to speak—” “That likewise is a familiar rhetorical principle—” “—And it is with the composition of this paragraph that I am just now having trouble.” “Well, you could not possibly have consulted a more suitable person. I, too, used to dabble in the little art of letters before I became a god with four aspects. I am familiar with all rhetorical devices. I am a past master of zeugma and syllepsis; at hypallage, and chiasmus also, I excel; and my handling of meiosis and persiflage and oxymoron has been quite generally admired. So do you read me your rough draft: and I have no doubt I can arrange all difficulties for you.” The Sphinx for a moment considered this suggestion, and, before the prospect of a connoisseur’s efficient criticism, the monster seemed rather shy. “Do not be vexed unduly,” the Sphinx then said, “if you can find no meaning in this paragraph—” “I shall not be excessively censorious, I assure you. No beginner is expected to excel in any art.” “—For this paragraph was placed here simply because there happened to be a vacancy which needed filling—” “I quite understand that. So let us get on!” But there was no hurrying the diffident Sphinx. “The foolish, therefore,” the Sphinx continued in shy explanation, “will find in it foolishness, and will say ‘Bother!’ The wise, as wisdom goes, will reflect that this paragraph was placed here without its consent being asked; that no wit nor large significance was loaned it by its creator; and that it will be forgotten with the turning of the one page wherein it figures unimportantly—” “No doubt it will be!” said Gerald, now speaking a little impatiently, “but let us get on to this famous paragraph!” “—So do you turn the page forthwith, in just the care-free fashion of old nodding Time as he skims over the long book of life: and do you say either ‘Bother!’ or ‘Brother!’ as your wits prompt.” “I will, I assure you, the moment your book is published. But why do you keep talking about your paragraph? why do you not read me what you have written?” “I have just done so,” replied the Sphinx. “I have not been talking. I have been reading ever since I said, ‘Do you not be vexed’ and now I have read you the whole paragraph.”