After a pause she said, "Well, yes, you may come in." She stood aside, watching him with a whimsical smile as he advanced into the room.
He stopped in surprise when he saw the figure at the table, bending over the spoons. It was the Masked Lady. She had put aside her shepherdess's crook and had become a house-servant. But he was so full of the thought of Cinderella that he paid little heed to the Masked Lady.
He sat down in one of the chairs the sisters had occupied; and when Cinderella followed and sat down by him he gazed at her intently.
"Tell me—what was it you wished to know?" asked Cinderella.
He had trouble finding the right words; but at length he began, "Your mother—does she whip you? You know, you were running so, and you seemed so frightened …"
Cinderella looked beyond him. She seemed to speak to herself rather than to Everychild. "She doesn't whip me," she said. "If it were only being whipped I shouldn't mind so much. A whipping … it's soon over and little harm done. No, she doesn't whip me."
"Or perhaps she tries to lose you," said Everychild. "You were really in a dreadful state, you know, as you came running along the road."
But Cinderella continued to speak musingly, as if to herself. "She doesn't whip me. But to know that you're never to be praised or loved; to have your mother look at you coldly, and say nothing—or just to have her pay no attention at all, but to act as if a wrong had been done her somehow … a whipping would be easy, compared with that."
Everychild took her up with swift comprehension. "I know what you mean," he declared. "Not to have them listen when you speak, as if you were in the way …"
Cinderella gazed at him darkly. "Child, what do you know of such things?" she demanded.