"There was nothing," I answered quietly. "Miss Gina really turned her ankle on the rug. And I caught her as she fell—just as you would have done."
He stood panting for a moment, his gaze riveted upon me. At last he turned away, with a pitiful movement of regret, apology, resignation. The excellent man gave me the benefit of the doubt.
"Ah, Dio mio," he muttered. "Poverina! Go, my friend, now. I must think. Bellessa mia!—cara mia!—what will I say to her? Ah, Dio! what a bitter world!"
"I am more distressed than I can say," I murmured, with the crushed voice of poignant suffering, "but what can I do—or say—more?"
"Niente—nothing, nothing," he muttered. "Good night!" and my admiration for his spirit was high when he held out his trembling hand.
I tiptoed to the door like a thief and as I took my coat and hat, Gina called out from the top of the stairs in uncomprehending astonishment.
"Not going—Randolph!" And like a small avalanche she shot down the stairs.
"Yes—yes—he is going, bellessa mia!" firmly shouted Visconti as he came running towards us. "He is called away—good night—good night!"
"Good night," I said and held out my hand to Gina. But Gina's manners are more modern than her father's. She was dumbfounded and she turned her back upon me angrily, registering doubtless some standard emotion from a favorite movie. It was useless to try to placate her. I slipped out of the door which will never more open for me.
The nightmarish quality of the episode persisted in my consciousness like a drug throughout the passage homeward, and it was not until I entered my door and saw a light in my study that reality began to assert itself.