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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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THIS is the everlasting story of the Cinderella, retold from a new angle.
Every bit of it is wrong; for it concerns itself with the drama of Cinderella's Ugly Sister.
To begin with, the Prince was not correct. Viewed in the leaping firelight, as he sat in his shack, somewhere in the frozen twilight of the north, he did not look the part. He did not wear even the red shirt of "The Miner's Dream of Home." He was dirty with real good honest dirt. His lips were cracked from cold. His face was smudged with eight days' growth of beard. For all that, he had but to shave and get into a dinner jacket, to be in reality the Prince.
For the letter he held told him that he had come into his kingdom. It was from the lawyer of his home town, and stated that he inherited the estate of his late uncle—Horace Rice.
Rice puffed reflectively at his pipe. Outside, the snow was frozen in spikes on the fir trees. The sky was like a mirror of black glass, burning with electric white stars. It was so cold that it seemed that the air itself must crack. Rice smiled as he gazed into the flames. He was thinking of women...
During his 17 years of exile, he had rarely seen a woman. He had wandered in those corners of the world where a man has no address. He had to remind himself of his own name, since it never came home with the weekly wash. But he had his consolation, whenever the sun set, and, within or without, he sat over his fire.
Twilight and smoke. Then they came to him.
Those dear memories—the women of yesterday. As he uttered each name, one by one, they stole from the shadows. Girls he had known in the old days, in the little home town. Girls from shop, from office, from stage. Girls whom one visited in their drawing room, and girls one kissed at the back door. Girls who had sold him drinks over bar, and girls who had sold him cream candied at charity fêtes. Blonde, brune, and brunette—with a rufus or two flaming red. Shining eyes, smiling lips, shapely forms, waving hair. Girls long since married or put on the shelf—but all eternally young and beautiful in memory. He kissed his hand to the shadows.
"The ladies, God bless 'em! I'm coming home to you, my dears!"
Home was a small residential town of 10,000 inhabitants, set in a country thick with mistletoe-hung oaks. The town was noted for its historic Bun-Shoppe, which had the original Maid-of-Honour cakes. It was further famous for its pretty girls. At least, the town said so. The census return merely stated rudely that there was a large preponderance of female. These females—hereinafter called ladies—had not very much to do. They belonged to the leisured class, with three sitting rooms and a black-and-white parlourmaid.
And each lady had her day.
Mrs. Hunter had third Wednesday. She had no official servant, three daughters, and lived in a pokey house with a pink-shaded drawing room. But her at-homes always attracted that rare shy bird—the male visitor.
There were actually three of them at this particular at home—college youths with satin hair and silk socks, all devouring Maid-of-Honour as though they were glad to be there.
Their presence was a mystery. For one had but to glance at Mrs. Hunter and her two elder daughters to understand the reason of those pink shades.
Mrs. Hunter was a lean, powdered lady, with swinging emerald earrings and a terrific personality. A foot-long cigarette holder was perpetually between her lips. She wore a peacock-blue velvet jacket and smoking fez. Her glittering green eyes betrayed a relentless will.
All her life, she had striven to achieve originality. An ardent smoker at a period when few women smoked in public, she advertised the fact in her daughter's names. She called them Virginia and Egypt, and never once thought of their future.
Virginia—hereinafter called "Vergie"—was a volcanic, skinny young thing—and not so young at that. She was rouged to the eyes and she jangled and chattered in perpetual motion. She achieved a certain amount of success at dances, for her hunting instinct was perfectly developed, and she pounced on partners. They submitted because she danced very well—poor thing—merely to keep her footing, with the new buds blooming each fresh season. But—she would never get married.
The second daughter—hereinafter called "Gyp"—was the predestined wallflower. She lacked shape, animation, and colour. Her pale, heavy face was smothered in vanishing cream, which had not vanished. Her hair, bunched over her eyes and ears, made her face appear yet broader. She wore very fashionable clothes. Furthermore, she was made on a big scale and well, covered—and every one knows how kind modern dress always is to that kind of figure.
Yet she seemed serenely secure in her power to charm without effort. She sat like a maiden queen, her head high, her insolent eyelids half-closed, merely suffering the efforts of a college youth to entertain her.
"Going to the ball to-night, of course?"
"Ye-es."
"I hear it's going to be a jam."
"Why don't the committee keep it more select?
"Why?" The college youth was Socialist. "Every one likes a hop. Is Miss Jane coming?"
"No."
"Oh! Why not?"
Gyp treated this question merely as a comment. She was not accustomed to answer questions. At least, not in her mother's drawing room, with free Maids-of-Honour. She merely went on eating queen cakes.
Like a cyclone, Vergie bore down on them, grimacing and posturing.
"Did anyone say, 'Jane'? My dear good man, Jane's an infant. Besides, there are millions of girls ever already. I'm going to make my card beforehand—as we're told to do in the Bible—in the Parable of the Wise Virgin. I've put you down for seven, and fourteen. Aren't you thrilled?"
"Dee"—Poulton fervently relieved his feelings—"lighted. By the way; where is Miss Jane?"
"In the kitchen."
The kitchen was the natural place for only there through the charity and loving kindness of Mrs. Hunter, who had a private income of her own. Her late husband, twice lost to her—first by divorce and then by death—had left her not even alimony. When he ran away with a beautiful, passionate young woman, the pair had led a perfectly happy life in one room, with all its furniture disguised under frillies, and a gas ring for cooking.
The man made a violent departure from the scene, through an accident. And he was not insured. When, a little later, the woman faded from the scene, too, partly from living on tinned food, and not enough of that—Mrs. Hunter—inspired by malice, kindness, and self-interest, all of which she called "charity," rescued Jane, the sole child of the union, from the workhouse. She sent her to a training college of domestic science.
At the completion of her course, Jane gratefully accepted Mrs. Hunter's offer to receive her into her own house, in return for her services. It was a rare opportunity for revenge on those late splendid sinners, whose hell lay in finding a heaven of domestic bliss in one room.
Every one praised Mrs. Hunter's forgiving charity. Her first step was to change the child's name from "Hermione" to "Jane"—which, at that time, was very plain indeed. She did this from pure malice—which was impure. But, in the fullness of time, and just when the matter was of importance to the girl, the name received a boom. Things happened like that, for Jane.
All eyes were fixed on Jane as she entered with the tea tray. In her excess of zeal, Jane had forgotten Mrs. Hunter's orders to leave the teapot outside the door. In her hurry to keep the tea hot, she had not stopped to take off her pinafore, which was of sea-water blue. Her hair, too, unsmoothed, fell in a golden smother about her face. Her complexion was of roses and snow, all achieved on a diet of porridge and tea. It sometimes happens like that.
Instantly she was surrounded by the college youths who had risen, like one man. Poulton, who alone was not satin haired, but sported a crest like a scrubbing brush, harped back to his former question.
"Coming to the ball tonight, Miss Jane?"
"No." She spoke sadly. But she hastened to console them. "The girls are going, though. They've got new dresses for it. Dreams. You'll love them."
"Not going! What a rotten shame."
"Poor little thing."
"What stinking hard lines!"
"Look here, you've got to come!"
"I wish I could." Jane looked pensive. "They say that old Mr. Rice's nephew, from Canada, will be there: I—I'm curious to see what he's like. Oh, I should love to go!"
The socialistic Poulton turned impulsively to Gyp. "Can't you wangle it, somehow?"
"Afraid not," Gyp yawned. "Sorry. Jane's too young."
Poulton looked from one sister to the other. In that moment of flaming injustice, he changed from a mild Socialist into a red. He was up against the whole scheme, which illustrated the attitude of Society towards the under-dog. He hated the lazy, self-satisfied sister lolling back in her chair, while the little beauty had to be her drudge and fetch her tea. He hated Gyp because she wore satin which was in reality georgette—while Jane wore gingham—which was actually casement-cloth. He hated Gyp because she was fat, while Jane was thin. To him, a slim girl was pathetic, even though she did not feel the heat and could wear ready-made clothes.
The more he studied Gyp, the more he hated her. She wasn't a woman at all. She was like some Robotess, wound up to eat cake. She had neither heart, imagination, or justice. What did she know of the tragedy of young life starved of its lawful pleasures? Although he was a man, Poulton knew exactly how a young girl felt about these things. And Jane was such a beautiful and appealing object in her badge of servitude—a blue pinafore.
"I see," he said unpleasantly. "Three girls from one family too many, I suppose? You girls always say that. Now, I wonder what has suddenly reminded me of a pantomime? Have you been this year? A rotten principal boy."
His expression was innocently bland as he discussed the play, for the indignant flush on Gyp's face told him that his shaft had gone home. He knew that she knew that he referred to the history of Cinderella and her Ugly Sisters.
When the last visitor had gone, Gyp went upstairs to her bedroom. It was fireless and chill in a dim whiteish light from a fading sky and a snowy landscape.
On the bed was spread a new dress in a foam of palest Pink, like the drift of almond-blossom. Gyp picked it up and looked at it. Then, hurling it aside, she buried her face in her pillow and burst into strangled sobs. Presently, she got up and, lighting a candle, studied her swollen face in the glass.
"You ugly! You hateful monkey face! How I loathe the sight of you."
Her mouth was distorted in a fresh burst of self-pity. It wasn't fair. Why hadn't Fate given her a little of beauty which she worshipped passionately? She was sick to death of her own hopeless reflection.
Sick, too, of the humiliation of sitting—partnerless—for endless hours at balls, hiding her misery under a mask of insolent indifference. Sick of the shame of being dressed up like a four-penny rabbit, for social functions. Sick of being a failure at the games which her mother decreed for the good of her figure. Hopeless drudgery and torture. How could she possibly reduce her weight at tennis, when her partners—knowing her game—poached her every ball? When she rode, she was too nervous to trot; was more self-conscious than Lady Godiva when she passed through the town and saw her reflection in the shop windows, sitting like a sack of flour in the saddle.
Yet it was vain, to rebel against her mother's relentless will. She had tried—only to fail. She shrank from that merciless slit of a month and these glittering green eyes.
It was much worse since Jane had come to live with them. The young men were furious because she was kept in the background, and visited their scorn on Gyp. It was unfair, because Jane was too young for balls, at 17. Yet even the women, to whose daughters Jane would be a fatal rival, liked to refer to "poor little Jane."
Gyp started as Vergie burst into the room. Her face was thickly greased, and her hair wound round metal curlers, yet she appeared unconscious of her appearance as she smirked into the mirror.
"We've all got to look blooming tonight, to attract William. Glory be for a new dress! Hurry up, Gyp! You're to have the bathroom after me."
When she was alone. Gyp listlessly picked up her pink frock. She shivered at the thought of the long-drawn ordeal ahead. The outside snow would make the great ballroom at the George still chillier, as she sat—sat—listening to the eternal fox-trot and watching passing figures until her eyes ached.
Suddenly her self-control snapped.
"I won't go! I won't! Jane! Jane, come here!"
Gyp had looked forward to her first dance. She went. And she had never looked forward to a dance again. But on the historic occasion of the ball, which was to be graced by the presence of the Prince—once again, she was thrilled with anticipation. A wonderful dance. A dance which was different from the others.
For she was going to stay at home. There had been a terrific scene over her decision. Mrs. Hunter would have insisted on her presence had she been merely ill, but when Gyp not only asserted that she was bilious but threatened to prove her words in public, she had to give way.
Jane's presence at the ball was Gyp's secret and her triumph. Her pride had insisted upon it as her vindication with the socialist Poulton. Cinderella could go to the ball, while her Ugly Sister stopped at home.
She dressed Jane in her own room.
It was a lengthy process, as Jane's undress revealed a perfect faith in safety-pins. When, at last, Gyp drew the almond-pink frock over Jane's head, it gave her a pang to see how exactly it suited 17, while it had been designed for 26. No wonder she had looked grotesque in frills.
There was no false modesty about Jane when she viewed her own reflection. Girls always know when they are pretty, and, often, when they are not.
"I never knew clothes could make you look like that, Gyp. you dear old beanie. I could eat you! But who wants girls' kisses? It's different with men's."
"It's different with men's," echoed Gyp dully. "On which subject I shall probably have something to tell you when I come back. Do you think I shall mean anything in William's young life?"
"You'll be what your grandmother called 'the belle of the ball,'" said Gyp, smothering her envy. Yet, beautiful though she was, to Gyp's mind, something was lacking. She dimly remembered that, on the stage, Cinderella retained her picturesque rags throughout the play, and only appeared in feathers and cloth of silver for two minutes, in the finale.
Gyp supposed that theatrical producers knew their business. For the first time she began to wonder.
Her heart hammered with excitement when the taxi, secretly summoned by telephone, bore off Jane in the train of the car with Mrs. Hunter and Vergie.
At last she was alone. With the air of a queen entering her throne-room she descended to the kitchen.
Everybody loves Cinderella. We all rejoice over her fortunate marriage. But nobody can deny that she was a slut.
"O-oh!" said Gyp, looking under the mat. She fastened on the blue overall. The cap proved too small, so she unpinned her heavy knot of hair and plaited it into one thick rope. She rolled up her sleeves and kilted up her skirts. The light of battle shining in her eyes, she attacked the untidy stove.
Thereafter, in a passion, she swept. In a rapture, she scrubbed the linoleum. She sang as she worked for the sheer glory of action. At last she had found the outlet for her pent physical energy. This was something which repaid her—unlike the futile pursuit of a ball.
Gluttonous for more work, she polished the dresser until she could see her face in it—but was too happy to notice it. The sink, which was inches deep in refuse, with a stray knife or so floating amid the drift, she kept for a last delicious morsel. Then she washed her hands, put on the kettle to boil, and sat before the fire.
Ten o'clock. The ball would be well started. She could picture the gay scene; the polished ballroom floor reflecting the lights of the chandeliers and the brilliant maze of dancers. She smiled. This was the first dance she had ever enjoyed.
Her reverie was shattered by a hammering-on the back door.
A man in evening clothes stood outside. He was a tanned, attractive, husky giant, with puckers round his humorous blue eyes. The faintest frost was on his crisped hair.
"Sorry to knock you up, but you've no lights showing in front. I'm William Rice, of Clints, back from Canada, you know."
"Yes, I know,"
"Does my accent bite you all that? Well, I figured to go to a hop to-night, but clean forgot to get my ticket. I remembered reading Mrs. Hunter's name on the committee list, and thought she'd kindly stretch a point and sell me one now. I understand you must have a ticket."
Gyp gasped at the modesty of the Prince.
"It won't be necessary at all, in your case," she said. "You can pay up afterwards."
William continued to gaze reflectively into the kitchen.
"Bully place. I aimed at this standard with my own shack, but men don't get the same results as women. I suppose we're not so strong."
"It takes me exactly twelve minutes to scrub that floor," boasted Gyp, falling into vanity.
"You?" He stared at her. "I say, why aren't you at the ball?"
"Because three girls from one family are too many. Both my sisters are there."
"And they've left you at home! What a bally shame! I suppose you're the youngest?"
"No. Jane is the youngest. Seventeen."
"She's a selfish little, devil."
"Indeed, she's not." Gyp loved Jane passionately at that moment. "I made her go. It was her turn."
"You're a sport. But it is a rotten shame. All the family going off in its glad-rags, and leaving you here to do the chores. Makes me boil."
Gyp looked at him with eyes which had grown bright.
"I don't mind. Honestly."
"That's a lie. I know you've been eating your heart out. Aren't you just a girl? Now, can you look me in the face and deny you were thinking of the ball when I knocked at the door?"
Gyp rather liked looking into his eyes. They compelled her to tell the truth.
"Well, yes; I was."
"There! Look here, let's put one over them. Hop into your dress and come with me to the ball!"
Gyp suppressed a cry.
"I can't. I've nothing to wear. Jane is wearing my new dress."
"New, eh? Poor little girl. Seems to me that Jane gets all the pie. Tarnation shame. I'd like to see you in your party frock, with that big plait of yours swinging out and wiping your partner's eye."
Gyp shivered at the thought of the frilled frock.
"I don't wear my hair like this," she confessed. "I've far too much. It's nuisance."
"Like that? I've thought no woman could have too much hair and that she bought it and pinned it on, when the thatch was thin."
"Not now. It's worse to have too much than too little."
"Looks fine to me. That kettle's going to spit."
Gyp looked at him in hesitation.
"I was just going to make tea. I suppose you wouldn't— would you like some?"
"Yep, I sure would. Eats, too? Fine."
He looked, not at the plate of Maids-of-Honour, but at her hands.
"Do you know you've just the right sort of hands. They do everything well, yet they're pretty too. But one thing about them is all wrong."
There was an audacious glint in his eyes as he looked at her.
"That finger ought to wear a ring. You're cut out for a wife. How old are you?"
"About 23."
Although she had put back her age, as a true woman should, William was staggered.
"All that? Then—why aren't you married?"
After all, Gyp was human and she had her back against the wall. She fell from the truth.
"You forget the War," she said. "It hit my generation hard."
William gripped her hand.
"Awful hard. Look here, can't I stop and talk a bit?"
"But the ball?"
"Ball can wait. The night is still young, Do you know this—all this—is a dream come true? So are you. You're the first woman I've seen for 17 years."
"Am I?" Gyp stared at him. "But—the voyage?"
"I came over in a small boat, and there weren't many women crossing in the winter. Besides, we'd a rough passage, and all of them were mighty sick, all but a few aunties. No, you're the first. May I tell you about it?"
William made a good story of his wanderings, which covered a period of 17 years. Some of his adventures seemed a bit too good to be true. But when he spoke of those frozen blue twilights and of his fireside guests, his voice grew rough with real feeling.
"I'd have sold my soul to have felt the touch of a lady's hand again. So I used to think of all the girls I'd known—go over their names, their dresses, their kisses, everything. They saved me from going under."
It was long past midnight, and still the Prince had not appeared at the ball. In short, he never went at all, which cut out the slipper business. The story of Cinderella is entirely wrong.
"Now mind you come to the Hunt Ball next week," urged William, as he mangled her hand on parting. "I want to see you in chiffon and silk and all the gadgets."
Gyp looked, at herself in the glass when she readied her room. Her eyes no longer veiled by insolent, heavy lids, looked big and dark with excitement; they made her face appear smaller. Her cheeks were flushed with the warm tea-rose colour which exercise brings to pale thick skins. Her hair was a glory.
"You're not a beauty," she said. "But you don't look half bad tonight, old Face!"
Cinderella dreaded being seen by the Prince in her rags. Cinderella's Ugly Sister dreaded being seen by the Prince in her party frock. She vowed that no power on earth should induce her to go to the ball. Let William remember her at the high water mark of her charm.
Yet, during the day, when all the talk of the town was of William, her resolution weakened. She told herself that men had such curious taste. One had but to remember the horrible things they liked to eat—jellied eel, tripe and cheese with little things inside it.
William might have been a case of love at first sight. No one could understand why men married their wives. So she went.
It was a long time before William discovered her presence. Directly he entered the ballroom he saw the youngest bud of the season—dressed in white—fresh as dew and rose-tinted from schoolroom fare.
She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
As he gazed, spellbound, an M.C. pounced on him and introduced him to a girl with bobbed golden hair, dressed in apple-green—who had been, in her time, two war brides.
She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He wanted to fill her entire programme with his initials; but was glad he refrained when he was led to a slim slip of 40, in silver tissue, with shingled hair.
She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
When he presently caught sight of Gyp, in her little-girl turquoise-blue dress, tucked away among the wall-flowers, the hours of sitting still had done their worst to circulation. Her face was delicately mauve with cold as she surrendered her programme.
He hid his surprise at finding a dance and he apologized fervently every time she trod, through pure nervousness, on his feet.
They sat out the remainder of the foxtrot on the dark narrow stairs leading to the Musicians' Gallery. Gyp knew that the very worst had happened. But she faced the situation bravely.
"You've enjoyed yourself, I know. I've watched you."
"Haven't I?" He laughed, "My first hop after all these years."
Gyp knew it had to come.
"And the girls?"
"Wonderful to me. I'm staggered at their youth. Every one's young."
"Perhaps it's the short hair."
"Yep, that's another new thing which is mighty attractive. In the old days you picked out the pretty girls in a room. Now every girl is pretty."
"Wonderful how we—how they do it."
"Their dress has a lot of say-so on the subject. It's so simple. No boned bodies and high necks to give double chin."
Always "they"—never "you." Gyp spoke with the bitterness of the outsider.
"That's true. No one need possess a figure nowadays."
"And every one's so slim," persisted William. "Perfect sylphs. Don't they eat?"
"It's probably the games they play."
"I expect so. Aren't their complexions better than they used to be?"
As nearly every girl in the room was made up, Gyp aid nothing.
"Yes," mused William, "your modern girl is a sure winner. Am I boring you? Remember, I'm at kid who's got the ran of the tuckshop, after flattening my nose outside."
Gyp looked at his frosted hair and could not resist a dig.
"What a thing it is to be a boy, in love with life."
"Isn't it? gee that girl on the bottom stair? I told her my best story—really funny—but a smoking-room brand. She roared, and capped it with one I'd have barred. But it's a step in the right direction. When one's lived life in the raw, one has no use for prudes."
Gyp was my silent on the homeward drive. She was nerving herself for the thing she meant to say.
Directly they were inside the hall she prayed for courage and opened her dry lips.
"No sandwiches for me. I—I've something to say. This is my last dance. In future I give way to Jane. For pity's sake, give her her chance! It's her day. It's not mine. I never was—I never was the modern girl. I belong to the nineties, when a woman had hair and a bust and looked grown-up, when she was. I'm sick of being laughed at by uglies like Poulton. I'm sick of sitting still. So Jane shall go to balls, while I go into the kitchen. Good-night."
Girls. Fair girls, dark girls, dancing girls, sporting girls, rich girls, poor girls, thieves.
Thieves. For every mother's daughter of them was after William's heart. Happy as a salamander in hell, he went on his conquering way—eternally conquered by every fresh face. It was an unusually festive season, for a long frost made possible winter sports.
In the depths of her kitchen Gyp was safe from certain humiliation. Yet her heart kept yearning towards the gaiety from which she had barred herself. When she went for long walks on the iron-bound roads she kept hearing, in fancy, the bite of the skates and feeling the pressure of fingers on her own.
Gyp had too much imagination. That was the trouble with her.
The thaw came. Jane got engaged to young Poulton, and bought slippers for her trousseau. And still the situation was the same. Hearts, Diamonds, Clubs, Spades. Every Queen in the pack out after William.
Gyp had not seen him for weeks, when he appeared unexpectedly at Mrs. Hunter's third Wednesday. He crossed instantly to the tea table where Gyp was busy.
"Where've you been hiding?"
"Kitchen."
"Good, Lowered your scrubbing record yet? Which reminds me. Didn't I tell you, once, you had big hands?"
There was nothing in Gyp's face to tell him that he had slain her sweetest memory. She bit on the bullet. "I suppose you mean you want something done?"
"Yep. My car's got a pain in its tummy. Let's go down to the kitchen and get your slops!"
Where was Gyp's pride? She asked herself the question fiercely as the led the way downstairs and took her pinafore from its nail.
"Cap, too." William frowned. "What's wrong? You look different."
"I wore my hair in a plait last time."
"Well, what's the matter with a plait, now?"
Gyp could not resist the opportunity to display her one beauty. She defiantly shook it loose in a shining chestnut fan.
"There's hair!" William whistled. "You look like Eve fixed up to pass the censor. I say, do let me plait it for you!" As he laid his fingers on her hair. Gyp's self-control snapped. She had stood too much already...
"How dare you take such liberties? If you want to maul any one's hair, try it on with Rose or Betty, or one of your fancy girls!"
"Hooray! I've put you in a wax. Now you've got a colour. Come, sit down." His voice grew persuasive. "I want to talk."
"I don't want to listen."
"You will, when I tell you I'm hungry. You're the sort to fall for that. Last time you gave me eats."
"Well, do you want cookies now?"
"No. I want a kiss."
She gave him a slap in the face. He laughed as he rubbed his smarting cheek.
"Gosh! That takes one back. It's youth again. If you kissed a girl then you'd, better look out and duck... I've kissed scores since I've come back, and its like saluting chaste cold fish. It's all they care. But you do."
"You—you cad!"
"No, I'm not a cad exactly, Gyp. I'm just lonely. I'm blurting out things and I don't know how to say them. I wonder if I can make you understand."
He began to pace the kitchen. "Lonely. I'm like Rip Van Winkle. I went to sleep for a hundred years. And I dreamt of women. And I woke up to find that there are no women left. Only girls. Girls who are girls and girls who will be girls. Girls who've been kept on ice. I'm fed to the back teeth with eternal youth. I've no use for these everlasting sylphs. I don't want to hold a fairy—or a boy. I'm a gross man and I like to hug an armful. I want a woman.
"But they're all gone. Everything's different. No woman has any shape, or, if she has, she hides it in a sack. I'm bored to tears with slop. She drags her hat over her eyes and covers her ears. She's got no hair—not really well-dressed; hair—all roly-polies and curls. I grant you that in the old days, many a good girl went to hell for the wicked swear words she said over her hair-pins—but she looked IT....
"Take the stage. What do you find in the chorus now? Pretty, slim, bobbed boy-girls. Then think back to the Gibson Girls. Every one of them was a queen. Oh, Gyp, there were women once. If you'd seen Queenie Jay! A barmaid was she and the belle of Brighton. The chaps would line up to see her pass."
In his fancy, he saw her again. In her trim blue costume which was moulded to her perfect form, like wax; her golden hair which rippled in waves under her sailor-hat; the froth of her lace petticoat kicked up by her high heels; her white fox furs, her twenty-inch waist, her pink carnations, her complexion dazzling under the big black spots of her veil and the coquetry of her long lashes.
She passed. The woman of yesterday.
Gyp watched him, a little understanding smile playing round her lips. She knew what was wrong. William had never grown up. He had dreamt too much by the fire and wandered too much in the past. It had kept him eternally young. He wanted his youth again.
"I know," she said gently. "You're like some poor little boy who looked forward too much to the Christmas tree. You were bound to get disappointed. I'm go sorry."
"Sorry for me? Where did you get that?" William broke into a big laugh. "What d'you think I came to the kitchen for? Didn't I tell you, in here, that you were a dream come true. The first woman I'd seen for 17 years. And the only one. Thank God, you're left to me!"
This story is entirely wrong, for the Prince married Cinderella's Ugly Sister.
Roy Glashan's Library
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