“Just the same, only the name was different.  And who are we?  We are you as you imagine yourself to be.”

I looked inquiringly at Dorothy.

“Last week,” he went on, “you called me Richard.  And I proposed to Phyllis.”

“And I accepted him,” said Dorothy.

“You!” I said.  “What were you doing there, I should like to know?”

“Last week I was Phyllis.”

“The week before,” went on Reginald, “I was Gerald, and I proposed to Millicent.”

“I was Millicent, and I accepted him.”

“The week before that I was—­Good Heavens, think of it—­I was George!”

“A beastly name, I agree,” I said.

“You gave it me.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t feeling very well that week.”

“I was Mabel,” put in Dorothy, “and I accepted him.”

“No, no, no—­no, don’t say that.  I mean, one doesn’t accept people called George.”

“You made me.”

“Did I?  I’m awfully sorry.  Yes, I quite see your point.”

“The week before,” went on Reginald remorselessly, “I was—­”

“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.

“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—­”