"Ecco!" I suddenly heard the voice of Visconti laughing behind me, and Gina's hand clutched my shoulder convulsively. I confess that at my heart was a clutch of sheer blue funk.
"She has just turned her ankle!" I exclaimed mechanically.
"It's all right, papa," put in Gina's cheerful voice. "It's these old slippers. I'll go and change them." And to my amazement she straightened up, flashed a radiant smile at both of us, and walked to the door with only the slightest of limps.
"Sure you can walk alone?" I managed to stammer.
"Oh, yes!" Gina waved her hand at the door. "I'll be down soon."
The father laughed loudly and put his hand upon my shoulder.
"Come, caro mio, let us have a little smoke." I followed him dazedly. "Wonderful girl, Gina!" he exclaimed. "High spirits, eh?"
"Er—yes, indeed—very high." I felt as though I had emerged from a severe physical struggle.
"I can see—oh, even an old man like me can see," he chuckled jovially, as he held his cigar box toward me in the smoking room, "that you young people like each other—eh? Oh, sit down, sit down, amico mio. It is all right—all right. I must get used to the idea of the bambino, being grown up," and forcing me down into a leather chair, he continued to tap my shoulder by way of emphasizing his words. "I have been young—yes! I understand—and trust me, my boy, you cannot do better. Gina—Gina is one treasure for a man. Ah—yes! No love like the Italian woman's love. She will make you the best—"
"But wait—for God's sake, Mr. Visconti, wait," I cried in agony, leaping from my chair. "I can't—I mustn't even pretend to think of such a thing. Gina is far too—"