"It is ungenerous; it is not a fair requital of kindness; but that is what is said," he continued. "Now, I should not like any friend of Natalie's to incur such a charge on her account, do you perceive, madame? And, in these circumstances, do you not think that it would be better for both you and me to consider that you did not visit me this afternoon; that I know nothing of what idle foolishness Natalie has been talking? Would not that be better? As for me, I am dumb." "Oh, very well, my dear friend," said madame, quickly. "I would not for the world have Natalie or any one think that I was a mischief-maker--oh no! And did I not promise to you that I should say nothing of my having called on you to-day? It is already a promise." He turned round and regarded her. "Precisely so," he said. "You did promise; it was kind of you; and for myself, you may rely on my discretion. Your calling on me--what you repeated to me--all that is obliterated: you understand?" Madame Potecki understood that very well: but she could not quite make out why he should have come to her this evening, apparently with no object beyond that of reminding her of her promise to say nothing of her visit to Lisle Street. He lifted his hat from an adjacent chair. "Now I will leave you to finish your dinner in quiet. You forgive me for interrupting you, do you not? And you will remember, I am sure, not to mention to any one about your having called on me to-day? As for me, it is all wiped out: I know nothing. Adieu, and thanks." He shook hands with her in a very friendly manner, and then left, saying he could open the outer door for himself. He got home in time for dinner: he and Natalie dined together, and he was particularly kind to her; he talked in Magyar, which was his custom when he wished to be friendly and affectionate; he made no reference to George Brand whatsoever. "Natalie," said he, casually, "it was not fair that you were deprived of a holiday this year. You know the reason--there were too many important things going forward. But it is not yet too late. You must think about it--think where you would like to go for two or three weeks." She did not answer. It was on that morning that she had placed her written offer in her lover's hands; so far there had been no reply from him. "And Madame Potecki," her father continued; "she is not very rich; she has but little change. Why not take her with you instead of Anneli?" "I should like to take her away for a time," said the girl, in a low voice. "She lives a monotonous life; but she has always her pupils." "Some arrangement could be made with them, surely," her father said, lightly; and then he added, "Paris is always the safest place to go to when one is in doubt. There you are independent of the weather; there are so many things to see and to do if it rains. Will you think of it, Natalushka?"