When I asked her what sort of heroine she was, she looked up with a laugh and said that she didn’t see how it was possible to say precisely until the end of the story.
“And yet,” I said, “one generally can make a good guess before the last chapter comes.”
“Then you may do that,” she rejoined.
“I dare say I might find out by the process of elimination. You are not a heroine because you are travelling alone from Los Angeles to Richmond?”
“No. In this age and country there isn’t a particle of heroism in that. Why, you remember that ‘a woman might travel from one end of Britain to the other with safety in Eadwine’s day.’”
“It is not because you are travelling in a bicycle suit?”
“No. There are no more heroics in clothes.”
“Perhaps you have been ordered home against your wishes, and are illustrating that pleasant miracle ‘fair looks and true obedience’?”
“No. I rather enjoy being obedient; and I am going of my own accord.”
“Then I have no doubt that your going out there had something heroic about it; or maybe—”