She turned and gazed upon that face As lovely as her own, The poise of beauty and of grace That matched her grace alone.... And in that close and silent place I heard the lady moan. I held the lady to my breast And kissed her mouth and eyes. She sighed and snuggled down to rest Without the least surprise, While I told tales of sweet unrest That sounded very wise. "They say I'm mad," she whispered then, "I weep for dear despair, No matter where I go, dark men Follow me everywhere...." To quiet her I kissed again Her locks of golden hair. "Great God!" she cried with finished grace, "That woman whom I hate." I looked and in a mirror's face I saw the lady's mate. Then quiet men of that strange place Came down the halls of state. They took the lady tenderly Away from sound and sight. I answered not. It seemed to me As though they must be right. So I smashed the mirror utterly And fled into the night. Chapter LXIX And when Gud had finished reading the woman asked: "Is that all?" And Gud looked at the poem in his hand and said sorrowfully, "That is all." "But that is quite comprehensible," said the woman, "for it is merely one of Hersey's usual plagiarisms--a twittering parody of Rossetti's 'THE BLESSED DAMOSEL', and it is so simple." "Do you understand it?" asked Gud. "Of course, it merely means that the love of man is insufficient to satisfy the yearning of woman, and so she must look into the mirror of her own soul in search of greater spiritual joys. But alas, she is shadowed by her sex consciousness as reflected in her beauty of the flesh, and she can not escape that haunting shadow which finally drives her mad. Is that not simple?" To D. S.: I protest. This interpretation is entirely erroneous.--H. H. To H. H.: Good God, I know it! but if you had seen what I first wrote about it you would keep still.--D. S. "I should say," said Gud, "that it is beautiful simplicity." "That is just the trouble with all that these chaps are writing. They are so keen on the obvious. You see, I can understand all that these men have written, for it is all explainable by psychoanalysis. It is merely the symbolism of a suppressed wish to be famous. And, oh Gud, how I do crave true mystery!" "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."