"Since I can not have the slipper I shall not move. Besides, I am
sitting on the unshod foot. Hadn't you better sit down here beside me
and give an account of yourself and what you have been doing all these
ten years?"
"You know me?" genuinely astonished.
"But you do not know me?"
"No; it's a terrible thing to admit, but I do not recognize you."
"Don't you remember Betty Lee?"
"Betty Lee? That homely little girl turned into a goddess? Small wonder
that I didn't recognize you."
"My girl friends all say that I haven't changed a bit in ten years."
"Envy, malice, jealousy! But it is odd that you should recognize me and
that Nancy Marsden should forget me."
"I used to detest you; we forget only those we loved."
Enter one of the pumpkins, a young fellow about twenty. Hang it, I was
always being interrupted by some callow youth!
"Here's your confounded shoe, Bett. I've had a deuce of a time finding
it." He tossed the slipper cavalierly into her lap.
"Young man," said I severely, "you will never succeed with the ladies."
"The lady happens to be my sister,"--haughtily.
"Pardon me!"--contritely. "I should have remembered that sisters don't
belong."
The girl laughed and pushed out one of the pillows. Then she gave me the
slipper.
"We'll not haggle over a cobbler's license," she said.
I knelt and put on the slipper. Only one thing marred the completeness
of my happiness: the slipper wasn't a blue one.
The girl stood up and shook the folds in her dress, then turned coldly
on her brother.
"You are a disgrace to the family, Bob."
"Oh, fudge! Come on along to supper; it's ready, and I'm half starved."
Brothers don't belong, either.
"I wish you luck with the white slipper," said Betty, as she turned to
leave. "Call on me soon, and I'll forgive all the past."
"That I shall." But I made up my mind that I should call on Nancy
first. Otherwise it would be dangerous.
I stood alone. It rather hurt to think one girl should remember me and
that the other should absolutely forget. But supper brought me out of my
cogitations. So once again I put away the slipper and looked at my
supper-card. I was destined to sit at table four. I followed the
pilgrims out to worship at the shrine of Lucullus.
Evidently there was no Cinderella; or, true to her condition in life,
she was at this moment seated before her ash-heap, surrounded by
strutting and cooing doves. Well, well, I could put the slipper on the
mantel at home; it would be a pleasant reminder.
I found table four. There were four chairs, none of them occupied; and
as I sat down I wondered if any one I knew would sit down with me.
A heavy hand fell rudely upon my shoulder.
"What do you mean, sir, by entering a gentleman's house in this
manner?" demanded a stern voice.