“How dear of you to say that!  Well, what is it that he does that I don’t do?  Just say the word,—­teetotal, vegetarian, aeronaut, theosophist, superman.  I’ll have a try at it, Gladys, if you will only give me an idea what would please you.”

She laughed at the elasticity of my character.  “Well, in the first place, I don’t think my ideal would speak like that,” said she.  “He would be a harder, sterner man, not so ready to adapt himself to a silly girl’s whim.  But, above all, he must be a man who could do, who could act, who could look Death in the face and have no fear of him, a man of great deeds and strange experiences.  It is never a man that I should love, but always the glories he had won; for they would be reflected upon me.  Think of Richard Burton!  When I read his wife’s life of him I could so understand her love!  And Lady Stanley!  Did you ever read the wonderful last chapter of that book about her husband?  These are the sort of men that a woman could worship with all her soul, and yet be the greater, not the less, on account of her love, honored by all the world as the inspirer of noble deeds.”

She looked so beautiful in her enthusiasm that I nearly brought down the whole level of the interview.  I gripped myself hard, and went on with the argument.

“We can’t all be Stanleys and Burtons,” said I; “besides, we don’t get the chance,—­at least, I never had the chance.  If I did, I should try to take it.”

“But chances are all around you.  It is the mark of the kind of man I mean that he makes his own chances.  You can’t hold him back.  I’ve never met him, and yet I seem to know him so well.  There are heroisms all round us waiting to be done.  It’s for men to do them, and for women to reserve their love as a reward for such men.  Look at that young Frenchman who went up last week in a balloon.  It was blowing a gale of wind; but because he was announced to go he insisted on starting.  The wind blew him fifteen hundred miles in twenty-four hours, and he fell in the middle of Russia.  That was the kind of man I mean.  Think of the woman he loved, and how other women must have envied her!  That’s what I should like to be,—­envied for my man.”

“I’d have done it to please you.”

“But you shouldn’t do it merely to please me.  You should do it because you can’t help yourself, because it’s natural to you, because the man in you is crying out for heroic expression.  Now, when you described the Wigan coal explosion last month, could you not have gone down and helped those people, in spite of the choke-damp?”

“I did.”

“You never said so.”

“There was nothing worth bucking about.”

“I didn’t know.”  She looked at me with rather more interest.  “That was brave of you.”

“I had to.  If you want to write good copy, you must be where the things are.”