“You can not guess, eh?” he said. “Then it is certainly evident I did not make much of an impression upon you. I am disappointed. I will not keep you in suspense, however. We met at Whitestone Hall, on the night of the lawn fête, and my name is Lester Stanwick.”
Ah, she did remember him, standing beneath a waving palm-tree, his bold, dark eyes following her every motion, while she was waltzing with Rex.
He saw the flash of recognition in her eyes, and the blush that mantled her fair, sweet face.
“I am very grateful to you, sir, for saving me. But won’t you take me home, please? I don’t want to go back to Madame Whitney’s.”
“Of course not,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “when you left it in such a remarkable manner as running away.”
“How did you know I ran away?” asked Daisy, flushing hotly.
“Madame Whitney has advertised for you,” he responded, promptly.
Although he well knew what he uttered was a deliberate falsehood, he merely guessed the little wild bird had grown weary of the restraint, and had flown away.
“Did she do that?” asked Daisy, thoroughly alarmed, her great blue eyes dilating with fear. “Oh, Mr. Stanwick, what shall I do? I do not want to go back. I would sooner die first.”