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Cinderella indeed looked beautiful as they started for the ball; but her mother, who held a review of her in the drawing-room, was not quite satisfied.

“Cinderella!” she said. “You know I said you were to wear the silver slippers!”

“Oh, mother, they ARE so tight,” pleaded Cinderella. “Don’t you remember I told you at the time they were much too small for me?”

“Nonsense. Go and put them on at once.”

The dance was in full swing when Cinderella arrived. Although her lovely appearance caused several of the guests to look at her, they did not ask each other eagerly who she was, for most of them knew her already as Miss Partington-Smith. A brewer’s son led her off to dance.

The night wore on slowly. One young man after another trod on Cinderella’s toes, trotted in circles round her, ran her violently backwards into some other man, or swooped with her into the fireplace. Cinderella, whose feet seemed mechanically to adapt themselves to the interpretation of the Boston that was forming in her partner’s brain, bore it from each one as long as she could; and then led the way to a quiet corner, where she confessed frankly that she had NOT bought all her Christmas presents yet, and that she WAS going to Switzerland for the winter.

The gelatine manufacturer’s son took her in to supper. It was noticed that Cinderella looked much happier as soon as they had sat down, and indeed throughout the meal she was in the highest spirits. For some reason or other she seemed to find even Mr Hogbin endurable. But just as they were about to return to the ball-room an expression of absolute dismay came over her face.

“Anything the matter?” said her partner.

“N–no,” said Cinderella; but she made no effort to move.

“Well, shall we come?”

“Y–yes.”

She waited a moment longer, dropped her fan under the table, picked it up slowly, and followed him out.

“Let’s sit down here,” she said in the hall; “not upstairs.”

They sat in silence; for he had exhausted his stock of questions at the end of their first dance, and had told her all about Australia during supper; while she apparently had no desire for conversation of any kind, being wrapped up in her thoughts.

“I’ll wait here,” she said, as a dance began. “If you see mother, I wish you’d send her to me.”

Her mother came up eagerly.

“Well, dear?” she said.

“Mother,” said Cinderella, “do take me home at once. Something extraordinary has happened.”

“It’s young Mr Hogbin! I knew it!”

“Who? Oh–er–yes, of course. I’ll tell you all about it in the carriage, mother.”

“Is my little girl going to be happy?”

“I don’t know,” said Cinderella anxiously. “There’s just a chance.”

The chance must have come off, for, once in the carriage, Cinderella gave a deep sigh of happiness.

“Well, dear?” said her mother again.

“You’ll NEVER guess, mother,” laughed Cinderella. “Try.”

“I guess that my little daughter thinks of running away from me,” said her mother archly. “Am I right?”

“Oh, how lovely! Why, running away is simply the LAST thing I could do. Look!” She stretched out her foot-clothed only in a pale blue stocking.

“Cinderella!”

“I TOLD you they were too tight,” she explained rapidly, “and I was trodden on by every man in the place, and I simply HAD to kick them off at supper, and–and I only got one back. I don’t know what happened to the other; I suppose it got pushed along somewhere, but, anyhow, I wasn’t going under the table after it.” She laughed suddenly and softly to herself. “I wonder what they’ll do when they find the slipper?” she said.

. . . . . . . .

Of course the King’s son (or anyhow, Mr Hogbin) ought to have sent it round to all the ladies in Mayfair, taking knightly oath to marry her whom it fitted. But what actually happened was that a footman found it, and, being very sentimental and knowing that nobody would ever dare to claim it, carried it about with him ever afterwards–thereby gaining a great reputation with his cronies as a nut.

Oh, and by the way–I ought to put in a good word for the godmother. She did her best.

“Cinderella!” said her mother at lunch next day, as she looked up from her letters. “Why didn’t you tell me your godmother was ill?”

“She wasn’t very well when I left her, but I didn’t think it was anything much. Is she bad? I AM sorry.”

“She writes that she has obtained measles. I suppose that means YOU’RE infectious. Really, it’s very inconvenient. Well, I’m glad we didn’t know yesterday or you couldn’t have gone to the dance.”

“Dear fairy godmother!” said Cinderella to herself. “She was a day too late, but how sweet of her to think of it at all!”