Cinderella ran all the way home, and arrived at last panting and breathless, just in time to open the door for the sisters.
She asked them whether they had enjoyed themselves as much as on the previous night, and whether the beautiful Princess had been at the ball. They told her all about it, not because they wished to please her—for, as Euphronia said, it was mere waste of time to talk to a kitchen-slut like Cinderella about such fashionable doings—but because they were so excited that they simply had to talk to somebody.
“And what do you think!” said Charlotte, after her sister had related how the Princess, on the stroke of twelve, had rushed away, leaving her slipper behind. “What do you think! The Prince kept that slipper in his hand all the rest of the evening, and I saw him kiss it when he thought nobody was looking.
“Foolish creature!” cried Euphronia with a toss of her head.
“I do not know about that,” remarked Charlotte. “It is plain to see that the Prince loves that beautiful lady and will never be happy until he finds her again.”
At these words the tears filled Cinderella’s eyes, and she had to turn away quickly for fear her sisters should notice her agitation.
“It is the Princess he loves,” she thought sadly. “If he could see me now in these ragged clothes, or find me at my drudgery in the kitchen, would he recognize me?