Audrey and I were on some kind of a trip, like a seashore resort, Asbury Park, Atlantic City, something like that. I think we're on a bus. We get to this town and we run into Ed Kytta and he's looking down the mountain sort of bedraggled and lonely as usual, and it's raining out. So he sort of comes along, tags along. He said, "How is it? Are you still doing the same old things?" At which point I look at a stairway and the stairway is wooden and covered with cloth steps, these rug things they put over steps. I'm saying one shouldn't be deceived by these steps, that the important thing about them is not the rug on the top, but the grain of the wood underneath. Kytta says in response to this, "The same old Jones," meaning I'm still more interested in interpreting things than in accepting them. Then we get ready to leave, and we're leaving this particular town, and I have to quickly make a choice, whether to invite Ed to come along with us or to leave him there, and I by impulse say, "How about it, Ed, do you want to come along with us?" He sort of heaves a big sigh and says something to the effect that if you'd only treated me that simply in the first place, I'd be a much better man today or something like that.