She nipped him with a violence that made him jump.
“Do not tell me that you are drunk!” she hissed, viciously. “That would be too much! Drunk at such a moment!”
But Stewart had begun to pull himself together.
“No, madam, I am not drunk,” he assured her; “and your pinch convinces me that I am not dreaming.” He rubbed his arm thoughtfully. “There remains only one hypothesis—that I have suddenly gone mad. And yet I have never heard of any madness in my family, nor until this moment detected any symptoms in myself.”
“Is this a time for fooling?” she snapped. “Tell me at once——”
“There is, of course, another hypothesis,” went on Stewart, calmly, “and that is that it is you who are mad——”
“Were you not expecting me?” she repeated.
Stewart’s eyes fell upon the satin slippers, and he smiled.
“Why, certainly I was expecting you,” he answered. “I was just saying to myself that the only thing lacking in this fairy-tale was the beautiful Cinderella—and presto; there you were!”
She looked at him wildly, her eyes dark with fear. Suddenly she caught her lower lip between the thumb and little finger of her left hand, and stood a moment expectantly, holding it so and staring up at him. Then, as he stared back uncomprehendingly, she dropped into a chair and burst into a flood of tears.