“Then you enjoyed yourself, Miss Ella? Indeed, I can see you did,” said the old woman, as she carefully shook out the “bovillonnés” which had so exercised Mrs Jones’s mind. “Your dress isn’t—not to say spoilt, at all. It’ll look as good as new for the next time.”
“Next time indeed!” sighed Ella, “and when will that be, I wonder? There was a gentleman there last night, do you know, Hester, that said I reminded him of Cinderella? But Cinderella was luckier than I—she went to three balls, one after the other, and—”
But Hester interrupted her. She was peering anxiously into the trunk.
“Miss Ella,” she said, “I can’t see the fellow to this slipper nowhere. They’re not your own, are they? At least I don’t remember packing them up.”
Ella’s face grew grave.
“Oh dear,” she exclaimed, “I had forgotten about it. I don’t know what to do,” and the story was related to Hester.
“You must tell Miss Madelene—Miss St Quentin, about it, as soon as ever she comes home, and I daresay she’ll send to inquire at the Manor. Dear—dear—it would be a pity if it were lost.”
And the talking about it put other things out of the girl’s head, otherwise she might not improbably have gone on to tell Hester more details about the ball and the unknown who had compared her to the old fairy-tale heroine.
But the luncheon-bell interrupted her gossip with Hester. Ella found her father already in the dining-room with Lady Cheynes.
“I’m so glad you’re better, papa,” she said, as she went up to kiss him, her sweet face bright and eager.