Precious, all unconscious of those burning eyes, stood quietly watching the strangers that surrounded her, coming and going in ceaseless ebb and flow like the waves of the sea.
Suddenly those eyes came nearer, nearer, and burned on the lovely face. Then a voice spoke in her ear:
"Good-evening, Miss Winans."
Precious started and looked at the speaker.
She recognized her drawing-master, Lindsey Warwick, a young man she secretly disliked because she had a vague suspicion that he was the writer of several mysterious love-letters she had lately received.
She gave him a haughty nod, but she did not speak, only stared in surprise at his elegant evening suit and the rose in his buttonhole, that transformed him from the poor drawing-master to the elegant man of fashion.
Lindsey Warwick was not at all abashed by her supercilious air. He seemed to be wildly agitated, his face pale, his firm chin trembling with emotion. Bending close to the girl's ear he whispered:
"Come! your father wishes me to take you to your mother."
Something about him, his awe-struck tone, his agitation frightened the girl. She gasped inquiringly:
"Mamma?"