She was charming; a Watteau shepherdess in a fashionable ball-gown. She was all alone in the nook at the farther end of the conservatory; and I was glad. Her eyes were brown, with a glint of gold around the pupils, a kaleidoscopic iris, as it were. She possessed one of those adorable chins that defy the future to double them; smooth and round, such as a man delights to curve his palm under; and I might search the several languages I know to describe fitly her red mouth. Her hair was the color of a fallen maple-leaf, a rich, soft, warm October brown, streaked with red. Patience! You may laugh, but, for my part, give me a dash of red above the alabaster brow of a pretty woman. It is a mute language which speaks of a sparkling intellect; and whenever I seek the exhilaration that rises from a witty conflict, I find me a woman with a glimmer of red in her hair. "Well, sir?" said she, breaking in upon my train of specific adjectives. "Pardon me! I was thinking how I should describe you were I a successful novelist, which I declare I am not." "You certainly have all the assurance of a writer of books, to speak to me in this manner." "My assurance is based wholly upon the possession of a truant slipper. I am bold; but the end justifies the means,"--having in mind her foot. Her shoulders drew together and fell. "I am searching for the Cinderella who has lost a slipper; and I am going to call you Cinderella till I have proof that you are not she whom I seek." "It is very kind of you," she replied, with a hint of sunshine struggling at the corners of her lips. "Have I ever met you before?"--puzzling her arched brows. "Memory does not follow reincarnation," I answered owlishly; "but I dare say that I often met you at the Temple of Venus in the old, old days." She appeared slightly interested. "What, may I ask, was your business in the old, old days?" "I played the cithern." "And I?" "I believe you distributed flowers." "Do you know the hostess?"--with solemn eyes. "Oh, yes; though she hasn't the slightest recollection of me. But that's perfectly natural. At affairs like this the hostess recalls familiarly to her mind only those who sat at her dinner-table earlier in the evening. All other invitations are paid obligations." "You possess some discernment, at least." "Thank you." "But I wish I knew precisely what you are about,"--her eyes growing critical in their examination. "I am seeking Cinderella," once more holding out the slipper. Then I looked at my watch. "It is not yet twelve o'clock." "You are, of course, a guest here,"--ruminating, "else you could not have passed the footman at the door." "Mark my attire; or, candidly, do I look like a footman?" "No-o; I can't say you do; but in Cinderella, don't you know, the footman carried the slipper." "Oh, I'm the prince," I explained easily; "I dismissed the footman at the door."