Part 65 (2/2)

”Just what I said,” explained Reginald. ”You think you have a new hero and heroine every week, but you're mistaken. We are always the same; and, personally, I am tired of proposing week after week to the same girl.”

There was just something about Reginald that I seemed to recognize.

Just the very slightest something.

”Then who are you really,” I asked, ”if you're always the same person?”

”Yourself. Not really yourself, of course, but yourself as you fondly imagine you are.”

I laughed scornfully. ”You're nothing of the sort. How ridiculous!

The hero of my own stories, indeed! Myself idealized--then I suppose you think you're rather a fine fellow?” I sneered.

”I suppose you think I am.”

”No, I don't. I think you are a silly a.s.s. Saying I'm my own hero.

I'm nothing of the sort. And I suppose Dorothy is me, too?”

”I'm the girl you're in love with,” said Dorothy. ”Idealized.”

”I'm not in love with any one,” I denied indignantly.

”Then your ideal girl.”

”Ah, you might well be that,” I smiled.

I looked at her longingly. She was wonderfully beautiful. I went a little closer to her.

”And we've come,” said Reginald, putting his oar in again, ”to say that we're sick of getting engaged every week.”

I ignored Reginald altogether.

”Are you really sick of him?” I asked Dorothy.

”Yes!”

”As sick of him as I am?”

”I--I daresay.”

”Then let's cross him out,” I said. And I went back to the table and took up my pen. ”Say the word,” I said to Dorothy.

”Steady on,” began Reginald uneasily. ”All I meant was--”

”Personally, as you know,” I said to Dorothy, ”I think he's a silly a.s.s. And if you think so too--”

”I say, look here, old chap--”

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