"Yes, really....", furthered Jones.

"Your fire is wonderful", completed Plimpton.

The lovely lady had not heard. She was watching the highest of all the flames, the streaking blue wisp like a hand, never reaching ever trying...."Created a book" she went on deftly. "And I am happy to have you all here to look at it, bless it. For you are wise men--and the book is mine. My husband, you see--my husband does not understand. He is not wise; he is only a husband. And he thinks that the book should be at least partly, his...It is not. It is mine, mine and God's." She extended the volume toward Thwait.

Thwait took it gingerly, precisely, carefully. And then he forgot himself, on remembered himself. "Do you mind--do you mind if I write..."

She smiled. "You want to give it something? Of course you may write." He scribbled fiercely on the margin of a page of clear, large print. Marginal notes. He had given of his lore to the book child of the lovely lady.

"Now really", said Jones. And he wrote an erratum on the fly leaf.

"What a real warmth it has" concluded Plimpkin as he added a comma to the erratum of Jones and a great, fat semi-colon to the marginal notes of Thwait. They smiled at each other benignly. The lovely lady was watching the fire, watching the flame which always was reaching, trying....

"I think", she said," we had better play the radio."