And she of the iridescent beauty, which is the beauty that is ever changing, made answer to Gud: "Of a truth, great Gud, I am no other than the reader of this book which two men are writing about you." "What's this?" asked Gud, for he was much amazed, albeit not displeased, to hear that Hersey and I were writing this book about him. And the iridescent woman said again, "I am the reader of 'The Book of Gud,' which Dan Spain and Harold Hersey are writing about you." "How do you know they are writing it?" "I know," said the woman, "because it is common gossip in the Village, for every one there gossips about anything Hersey has a hand in." "Where is this village?" asked Gud, "and who is this Hersey creature?" "The Village," she replied, "where Hersey burns his wee small flame, is South of Fourteenth Street and West of University Place, in the City of New York, which is the Gateway to the Melting Pot of the Planet Earth in the Solar System of the Universe." "Which universe?" asked Gud. "My universe," said the woman. "It must be a nice one, but what do you wish that I should do for you?" "What I wish," said she (who is none other than the reader of this book) "is to find some great mystery in art or literature or in some psychic science; and I wish that you would inspire these men to put something into 'The Book of Gud' that no one can understand." "I will look into the matter," said Gud. And he did.... Then he looked again into the iridescent eyes of the ever-changing woman and said to her: "It is useless, for I have searched the soul of that fellow Spain and he is not an inspired writer but only a disgruntled hack who could not possibly write anything that you could not understand." Whereupon the woman was vexed with disappointment so that she began to weep, and in the small compass of each tear she shed was the iridescence of a tiny rainbow. As Gud saw her tears, that they were beautiful, his heart overflowed with tenderness, and he said with a gentle voice: "I will try again." And now Gud searched the soul of Hersey. His search was not without reward and when he returned again to the beautiful woman she ceased to weep, for in his hand she saw that Gud held a poem. Seating himself beside her, he read her this poem that Hersey had written in the white heat of inspiration: Chapter LXVIII She stood there carelessly arrayed All in jewelled dress, And leaning on the balustrade She wept with bitterness, For facing her there stood a maid Of rival loveliness. Once she had been indifferent To languishment or guile, But when I argued with intent To hold her by a smile, Upon my eyes her own were bent For quite a little while. The lady raised her fluttering hands. "The night is cold," she said, "For tropic men in northern lands, For old maids still unwed, And for the evil one who stands In heaven when he's dead."