"Cinderella," she mused. She nestled her feet, and looked thoughtfully at her delicate hands. I could see she was at that instant recalling the picture of Cinderella and the ash-heap.
"What was the prince's name?"
"In this case it is just a prince of good fellows."
"I should like some witnesses." She gazed at me curiously, but there was no distrust in her limpid eye, as clear and moteless as Widow Wadman's.
"Isn't it fine," I cried with a burst of confidence, "to possess the courage to speak to strangers?"
"It is equally courageous to listen," was the retort.
"I knew I should like you!"—with enthusiasm.
She stirred uneasily. It might have been that her foot had suddenly grown chilled. A storm was whirling outside, and the pale, shadowy flakes of snow brushed the windows.
I approached her, held up the slipper and contemplated it with wrinkled brow. She watched me covertly. What a slipper! So small and dainty was it, so light and airy, that had I suddenly withdrawn my hand I verily believe it would have floated. It was part satin and part skin, and the light, striking the inner side of it, permeated it with a faint, rosy glow.
"What a darling thing it is!"—unable to repress my honest admiration. "Light as one of those snowflakes out yonder in the night. What a proud arch the instep has! Ah, but it is a high-bred shoe, fit to tread on the heart of any man. Lovely atom!"