I grant, but if a girl respects herself it’s up to her not to let herself get slack.”
To this essentially moral sentiment, I had no reply. A point of view makes a great difference.
I secured a couple of porters, and we alighted on the platform. My companion held out her hand.
“Good-bye, and I’ll mind my language better in future.”
“Oh, but surely you’ll let me look after you on the boat?”
“Mayn’t be on the boat. I’ve got to see whether that sister of mine got aboard after all anywhere. But thanks all the same.”
“Oh, but we’re going to meet again, surely? I—” I hesitated. “I want to meet your sister.”
We both laughed.
“That’s real nice of you. I’ll tell her what you say. But I don’t fancy we’ll meet again. You’ve been very good to me on the journey, especially after I cheeked you as I did. But what your face expressed first thing is quite true. I’m not your kind. And that brings trouble—I know that well enough. …”
Her face changed. For the moment all the light-hearted gaiety died out of it. It looked angry—revengeful. …
“So good-bye,” she finished, in a lighter tone.
“Aren’t you even going to tell me your name?” I cried, as she turned away.
She looked over her shoulder. A dimple appeared in each cheek. She was like a lovely picture by Greuze.
“Cinderella,” she said, and laughed.
But little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again.
