"Sir!"
But I saw no anger on her face. There was, however, a mixture of amusement, hauteur (that darling word of the lady novelists!) and objection. She hadn't the least idea who I was, and I was not going to tell her for some time to come. I was a prodigal, with a few new ideas.
"I meant nothing more serious than that you might happen to be Cinderella," said I. "What in the world should I do with Cinderella's slipper, once she was married to the prince?"
She swayed her fan indolently, but made no effort to rise. I looked upon this as rather encouraging.
"It would be somewhat embarrassing to ask a married woman if she were Cinderella," I proceeded.
"I should not particularize," she observed; "married or single, it would be embarrassing."
She was charming; a Watteau shepherdess in a fashionable ball-gown. She was all alone in the nook at the farther end of the conservatory; and I was glad. Her eyes were brown, with a glint of gold around the pupils, a kaleidoscopic iris, as it were. She possessed one of those adorable chins that defy the future to double them; smooth and round, such as a man delights to curve his palm under; and I might search the several languages I know to describe fitly her red mouth. Her hair was the color of a fallen maple-leaf, a rich, soft, warm October brown, streaked with red. Patience! You may laugh, but, for my part, give me a dash of red above the alabaster brow of a pretty woman. It is a mute language which speaks of a sparkling intellect; and whenever I seek the exhilaration that rises from a witty conflict, I find me a woman with a glimmer of red in her hair.
"Well, sir?" said she, breaking in upon my train of specific adjectives.
"Pardon me! I was thinking how I should describe you were I a successful novelist, which I declare I am not."
"You certainly have all the assurance of a writer of books, to speak to me in this manner."