"And the moment I turned my back—presto! away would go Cinderella, and I should be in the dark as much as ever regarding the pumpkins. No, I thank you. Be good, and confess that you are Cinderella."
"Sir, this really ceases to be amusing." Her fan closed with a snap.
"It was serious the moment I entered and saw you," I replied frankly.
"I ought to be annoyed excessively. You are a total stranger; I declare that I never saw you before in all my life. It is true that we are guests in the same house, but that does not give privilege to this particular annoyance. Here I am, talking to you as if it were distinctly proper."
"I can not say that you have put your foot in it yet,"—having recourse to the slipper again. I was having a fine time.
She smiled in spite of the anger which sparkled in her eyes. Of course, if she became downright angry I should tell who I was, only it would spoil everything.
"And you do not know me?" I said dejectedly. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never dreamed of any Prince Charming?"
"I can not say I have,"—icily.
A flock of young persons came in noisily, but happily they contented themselves with the bowl of lemon-punch at the other end of the conservatory.
I sat down in the Roman chair which stood at the side of the window-seat. I balanced the slipper on the palm of my hand. Funny, isn't it, how much a woman will put up with rather than walk about in her stockings. And I wasn't even sure that she had lost a slipper! I wondered, too, where all her dancing partners were.