"Don't go back into February, please! February is such a rotten month with me. Well now, what's your complaint?"
"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 ass. 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.