After the prince dropped out of the game Nina still stood watching.  The Countess Kate played as placidly as though she were dealing cards for “old maid,” while her husband reminded Nina of a squirrel sitting up and nibbling at a nut.  Carlo Olisco was excited but not unnatural.  Porter looked gloomy and taciturn.  Minotti and Allegro were both tense and keen, the former arrogant, the latter flushed and excited.  John Derby, like the Countess Kate, played exactly as he used to play Jack Straws or besique, on rainy days in the country.

From where she had been standing Nina could see only the top of Tornik’s head and, obeying an idle impulse of curiosity, she crossed to the opposite side of the table.  But no sooner had she caught sight of his face than she started as though some one had dashed cold water over her.  Tornik!  It was unbelievable!  His eyes glowed like coals; his lips, half opened, looked dry and burnt, as with that drawing-in motion of the confirmed gambler he stretched out his trembling fingers to grasp the last of the evening’s winnings.

Nina was not in love with him—­she had never even for a moment fancied that she was.  But nevertheless the revelation of his greed struck at her pride, and she seemed to see herself, or rather her own fortune, being grasped with precisely that avidity by those same long, eager fingers.  “He, too!” were the words that framed themselves in her thoughts.  Tornik, at least, had seemed disinterested, but it was only her gold that he was after—­like all the rest.

She turned away abruptly.  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.  If to help you is to help her—­and it is in my power—­I really think you ought to tell me.”