"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."
He weakened, hesitated. "Give me your promise you will not tell Leonora——?"
"You have it!" She put her hand back into his.
"It is this, then: I am the weakest man imaginable. To-night I had no idea of playing; I held out for some time, but the temptation was too strong at the end. Also what I lost was very little, but the money was a sum we had put aside to pay household expenses. If I do not pay them, Leonora must know of it."
Between the lines Nina divined a good deal of the whole story. Other vague suspicions that had come to her here and there helped somewhat to the conclusion.