Then a jar struck through her blinding rage; in a daze she felt herself released, and realized that Giovanni had appeared; that he had gripped Scorpa around the throat until his eyes started out of their sockets; and then sent him sprawling to the floor.

With the relief and reaction, everything seemed to recede from Nina and grow black.  Dimly she felt that Giovanni had put his arm around her to support her.  “Come quickly, Mademoiselle, before there is a scene”—­she heard his voice as though it were far off.  But she was perfectly conscious.  She knew that Scorpa still lay on the floor as Giovanni hurried her through another set of rooms and led her down a staircase that brought them to a second entrance door—­one by which, as it happened, Giovanni had come in.  The footman on duty looked as though he were going to bar their egress, but Giovanni ordered him to open the door quickly.  “The lady is fainting,” he said, and a glance at Nina’s face too well confirmed it.  Besides, the man would hardly have dared disobey a Sansevero.  Once in the open air, they lost no time in going around to the main entrance.  The Sansevero carriage was waiting, and Giovanni put Nina in.  “Wait here a moment—­I will go up and tell Eleanor.”

Nina was shaking from head to foot.  “No—­no—­don’t leave me; take me away!”

“It is not seemly to drive with you, Mademoiselle; I will return in a moment.”

But by this time Nina was hysterical.  “No—­no—­please take me home,” she begged.  “The carriage can come back.”  And she began to sob.

Giovanni hesitated, then jumped in quickly, telling the coachman to drive home as fast as possible.

“It must have been a frightful experience,” he said, as they started.  “Thank God I came even when I did.”

A shudder ran through Nina.  Instinctively she drew away from Giovanni, merely because he was a foreigner, and of the same race as Scorpa.  She could still see those thick, loathsome lips approaching her own, and the recollection gave her a nauseating sense of pollution.  Holding her hands over her face, she sobbed and sobbed.

Giovanni let her cry it out.  It was not a moment to play on her feelings—­they were too strained to stand any other emotion.  Yet had he considered nothing but his own advantage, he could not better have used his opportunity than by doing exactly what he did.

“Listen, Mademoiselle”—­his voice was soothing—­as kind and unimpassioned as though he were talking to a troubled little child.  “Promise me that you will try not to think about this afternoon.  It will do no good.  Try to forget it, if you can.  That man shall never again in any way enter your life.  At least I can promise you that!  Here we are!  Now,” he added in English, as the footman opened the door, “go upstairs and lie down.  I will go back immediately and tell Eleanor that you felt suddenly ill and that the carriage took you home.  It is not likely that Scorpa has given any version of the affair.”