Her partners undoubtedly found her distraite; her attention vacillated from one side of the ballroom to the other, as she searched for a well-known, graceful figure and a small, sleek black head.  All the time, too, she was fearful of seeing a square-jawed face that kept recurring to her memory as she had last seen it that afternoon—­distorted, with mouth open, and eyes protruding from their sockets.  Vivid pictures of the terrible incident flashed before her as she tried to listen to her partners; now she was swept with horror and revulsion, and again she felt a strange thrill at thought of the steely strength of Giovanni’s arms, as he had half carried her down the stairway.  But she looked in vain for her protector—­neither he nor the duke appeared.

“What is it, Signorina?” Prince Allegro’s voice broke jarringly upon her recollections.  “I am afraid I dance too fast!”

Nina recovered herself with a start.  “Oh, no!  But I feel—­a little tired; I wish we might sit down.”

“Let me conduct you into the next room—­or shall I take you to the princess?  Perhaps it would be better for you to go home.”

Nina smiled.  “No,” she said, “I am all right.  The room is very warm, I think.”

The Contessa Potensi, walking for once with her husband, passed through the adjoining room just as Nina had finally succeeded in focusing her attention upon Allegro’s sprightly chatter.  As they passed, the contessa stopped a moment to say to Nina, “I am so glad to see that you have recovered from your sudden indisposition of this afternoon.”  But her tone was neither solicitous nor sincere, and she hid her hands in such a way that she might have been making with her fingers the little horns that are supposed to be a protection against the evil eye.

“I am much better, thank you,” Nina answered simply.

“Don’t let me keep you standing.  I merely wanted to be assured that you are recovered.  I would not interrupt a tete-a-tete!”

The contessa’s manner suggested to Nina that it was perhaps questionable taste for a young girl to sit out part of a dance.  Instead, therefore, of resuming her place on the sofa, she asked Allegro to take her to the princess.

During the rest of the evening she had an uncomfortable conviction that the Contessa Potensi was talking about her.  She always had this impression in some degree whenever the contessa was present, but to-night it was strong and unmistakable.  And after a while she became aware that other people’s eyes were upon her with a new expression, that was not idle conjecture nor unmeaning curiosity.  The old ladies against the wall whispered together and glanced openly in her direction, as their gray heads bobbed above their fans.

At the end of the evening, as she was descending the staircase with her aunt and uncle, she was joined by Zoya Olisco, who whispered excitedly, “Tell me, cara mia—­what happened this afternoon?”