"Very well," laughed the colonel; "I'm a fakir." But the very ease with which he acknowledged this confirmed my suspicions that he had told only the plain truth. At this moment the butler appeared in the doorway, and we all arose. "Madam desires me to announce that dinner is served." The Scotch and the brandy saved the colonel any further embarrassment; we were all ravenously hungry. On our way to the drawing-room where we were to join the ladies, Fletcher began hoping for a clear, cold day for the morrow; and the colonel escaped. It was my happiness to take in the hostess that night. She was toying with her wine-glass, when I observed that the bracelet on her beautiful arm had a curious bangle. "I thought bangles passé," I said. "This isn't a fad." She extended her arm or the bracelet (I don't know which) for my inspection. "Why," I exclaimed breathlessly, "it is a miniature French louis!" A thousand fancies flooded my brain. "Look," she said. She touched a spring, and the bangle opened, discovering the colonel's youthful face. "How came you to select a louis for a bangle?" I asked. "That is a secret." "Oh, if it's a secret, far be it that I should strive to peer within. The colonel is a lucky dog. If I were half as lucky, I shouldn't be writing novels for a living." "Who knows?" she murmured, a far-away light in her glorious eyes. NO CINDERELLA THE ADVENTURE OF THE SATIN SLIPPER I "Madam, have you lost a slipper?" I asked politely. I held toward her the dainty shoe that might very well have appareled the foot of Venus; only one can not quite lift the imagination to the point of picturing Venus rising out of the Cyprian wave in a pair of ball-room slippers. "I am not yet addressed as madam," said she, calmly drawing her skirts about her feet, which were already securely hidden. "Not yet? Ah, that is very fortunate, indeed. I see I am not too late." "Sir!" But I saw no anger on her face. There was, however, a mixture of amusement, _hauteur_ (that darling word of the lady novelists!) and objection. She hadn't the least idea who I was, and I was not going to tell her for some time to come. I was a prodigal, with a few new ideas. "I meant nothing more serious than that you might happen to be Cinderella," said I. "What in the world should I do with Cinderella's slipper, once she was married to the prince?" She swayed her fan indolently, but made no effort to rise. I looked upon this as rather encouraging. "It would be somewhat embarrassing to ask a married woman if she were Cinderella," I proceeded. "I should not particularize," she observed; "married or single, it would be embarrassing."