“If I must answer,” I said, “I myself am compelled by artistic and other circumstances to write realism.”
She threw herself back in the seat with a laugh.
“I will confess,” I went on, “that I have been suspecting you for some minutes. What sort of fiction do you write?”
She laughed again, then looking at me whimsically without lifting her head she said, “I wrote ‘The Sacrifice.’”...
“This is all very well,” I said, “but you have yet to tell me why you are a heroine. I should like to know how you can be an author and a heroine at the same time?”
“It appears that I can not. I am no longer a heroine.”
“Is this the way you are to get out of it?”
“I am speaking the truth.”
“But not the whole truth. Why were you a heroine?”