I fell in love in England, Francesca fell in love in Scotland-" And here I paused, watching the blush mount rosily to Salemina's grey hair; pink is very becoming to grey, and that, we always say, accounts more satisfactorily for Salemina's frequent blushes than her modesty, which is about of the usual sort.
"Your argument is interesting, and even ingenious," she replied, "but I fail to see my responsibility.

If you persist in thinking of me as a character in fiction, I shall rebel.

I am not the stuff of which heroines are made; besides, I would never appear in anything so cheap and obvious as a series, and the three-volume novel is as much out of fashion as the Rollo books." "But we are unconscious heroines, you understand," I explained.

"While we were experiencing our experiences we did not notice them, but they have attained by degrees a sufficient bulk so that they are visible to the naked eye.

We can look back now and perceive the path we have travelled." "It isn't retrospect I object to, but anticipation," she retorted; "not history, but prophecy.