The Count Olisco left the table and, as her
uncle was already waiting, Zoya and she said good-night to the Mascos
and left.
On the way home, Sansevero was decidedly nervous. Something was wrong,
that was certain--he was as transparent as crystal; a child could not
have shown trouble more plainly. They drove the Oliscos home, but after
they had left them, Nina put her hand on her uncle's coat sleeve.
"Can't you--tell me?" she asked him.
Sansevero started, then shook his head. "It is nothing!" he said. But he
changed his mind almost immediately, took his breath as though to speak,
and stopped again. Nina's manner had been very sweet, very sympathetic.
The thought of confiding in the girl beside him had not entered his
head; but he might as well have tried to dam up a spring, as to keep
his confidence from overflowing at the first words of kindness. He
seized her hand, and his fingers during a moment of nervous indecision
beat a tattoo upon her glove--then he let her hand drop again.
"I am in the most difficult situation."
"Yes----?" Nina encouraged. "Can't I help?--Oh, I wish I _could_!"
"No!" He threw himself into the farthest possible corner of the
carriage. "No, no! I could not let you do that!"
Quickly a suspicion of the difficulty crossed her mind. "Uncle Sandro, I
want you to tell me! You know that I love Aunt Eleanor better than
almost any one in the world.
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