"Without doubt," says 'Duke, rousing himself. "You look fatigued, Phyllis; come and have some wine."
I take his arm and go with him gladly.
"Did anything vex you, darling?" he asks me, quietly, as we go into the next room.
"No; it was imagination. I did not know his face was quite so close, and, in consequence, when I opened my eyes I got a start. It was ridiculous of me."
"Was that all?"
"Yes, that was all." I laugh, though in a rather spiritless way, and feel angry with myself for the vague restraint that is quite discernible in my manner while Marmaduke pours me out some claret-cup, without asking any more questions.
"'Duke—Marmaduke—where are you? Oh, cone, come," cries Bebe, looking in, "we are all waiting for you. How can I pose properly until you get me the slipper? You said you had it somewhere."
So 'Duke flies, and I, putting from me my small vexation, which even already appears half fanciful, follow him to the sides, to see how they look before the curtain rises.
Cinderella (Bebe), clad in picturesque rags, is represented in the act of flying, leaving behind her the magical slipper, which Master Chips is eagerly stooping to pick up. He makes a veritable "Prince Charming," in his scarlet cloak and long silk stockings—got no one knows how—and cap and feathers; while Bebe, glancing backwards in her flight to mark the fate of her shoe, casts upon him a bewitching languishing gaze that (supposing the original Cinderella to be capable of such another) must have had more to do with her being Princess later on than anything in the shape of a vow.
Then we close up Dora, as Constance de Beverley, into an imaginary wall—the poor nun, with raised despairing eyes and downward clasped hands, creating much sympathy. Yet, none of us feel sure this was the spirit in which the real Constance met her doom; only, as the devotional tearful style suits Dora, we conclude it was, and make no unwelcome inquiries; and every one is charmed.