The doll is broken: no longer it sweetly squeaks
in answer to our pressure, "I love you, kiss me." The drum lies
silent with the drumstick inside; no longer do we make a brave noise
in the nursery. The box of tea-things we have clumsily put our foot
upon; there will be no more merry parties around the three-legged
stool. The tin trumpet will not play the note we want to sound; the
wooden bricks keep falling down; the toy cannon has exploded and
burnt our fingers. Never mind, little man, little woman, we will
try and mend things tomorrow.
And after all, Cinderella dear, you do live in a fine palace, and
you have jewels and grand dresses and--No, no, do not be indignant
with ME. Did not you dream of these things AS WELL AS of love?
Come now, be honest. It was always a prince, was it not, or, at the
least, an exceedingly well-to-do party, that handsome young
gentleman who bowed to you so gallantly from the red embers? He was
never a virtuous young commercial traveller, or cultured clerk,
earning a salary of three pounds a week, was he, Cinderella? Yet
there are many charming commercial travellers, many delightful
clerks with limited incomes, quite sufficient, however, to a
sensible man and woman desiring but each other's love.
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