“Oh, but we’re going to meet again, surely? I—” I hesitated. “I want to meet your sister.”
We both laughed.
“That’s real nice of you. I’ll tell her what you say. But I don’t fancy we’ll meet again. You’ve been very good to me on the journey, especially after I cheeked you as I did. But what your face expressed first thing is quite true. I’m not your kind. And that brings trouble—I know that well enough. …”
Her face changed. For the moment all the light-hearted gaiety died out of it. It looked angry—revengeful. …
“So good-bye,” she finished, in a lighter tone.
“Aren’t you even going to tell me your name?” I cried, as she turned away.
She looked over her shoulder. A dimple appeared in each cheek. She was like a lovely picture by Greuze.
“Cinderella,” she said, and laughed.
But little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again.