My Lady Cinderella

“But you are the sort of girl things do happen to. They will yet, you mark my words.” I shook my head. “Oh, if they only would! I’m so, so tired of Peck-ham. If something would happen today!” “What would you like best to happen?” queried Anne. “Am I to have my choice? Are you a fairy godmother in disguise? Well, I should say, please, fairy godmother, you see the beauteous maiden in pink muslin, driving with her mother in the particularly desirable Victoria?” As I spoke my eyes focused upon a wonderful girl who laughed haughtily, lazily conscious she was one of Fortune’s supreme favorites. “Well, then, dear fairy godmother wave your magic wand which so sadly resembles a three-and-sixpenny umbrella, and make me, if only for the space of one gorgeous month, like her. Give me as many Paris gowns, as much fun, as wild a whirl of gaiety, as she will enjoy this season. It isn’t a very noble or exalted wish, but I’m in the mood for it and nothing else, today.” Anne’s chair was on my left. On my right, separated by a little distance, I had been conscious for the past half-hour of a vague cloudiness of silk and muslin represented a woman. I had not actually glanced in her direction, but the corner of my eye had reflected a pale lavender fluff which was a sunshade. Now, suddenly, it was lifted, and a soft voice addressed me from underneath. “Do forgive me, won’t you? I really can’t resist speaking. I don’t want to be rude. On the contrary, I wish to be very nice. But…I couldn’t help over hearing some of the things you and your friend have been saying.” I felt the color stealing up, as I racked my brain to recall exactly what we had been saying. Anne was staring in blank surprise. For this was a personage of great magnificence who was endeavoring to draw us into conversation, and no doubt Anne was wondering, even as I was wondering, what could be the motive of such apparently purposeless condescension. The lady was of middle age…if women who frame their personal charms with the best can ever appear of middle age. She had elaborately undulated brown hair, under a bonnet was a poem, in one verse; bright, searching brown eyes, and a complexion could still live up to its past. As for her gown, it was too exquisitely Parisian to have been made out of London. “Don’t look so horrified,” she smiled. “I’m not mad, only a little eccentric. That means some of my friends think me a genius. I wonder what you would think me if I suggested you tried me as a fairy godmother?”