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.