Not a word.
"You were not so silent just now." I hazarded.
"I was acting—with discretion." She repeated my word with that relish and enjoyment which a well regulated mind always feels about a telling sarcasm.
"And what sort of discretion is this?" I retorted, laughing.
She was silent again.
"I have a good deal to tell you in explanation."
"I have no wish to hear anything, thank you," she interposed. "I can trust your discretion"—much emphasis again on the word—"as completely as you can mine. I am glad to have been of use to you and Madame Tueski." She threw the word "use" at me as if it had been a bomb to be exploded in my face.
"What have I done that's wrong? I'm very sorry," I said.
"I beg you not to apologise. You never used to, and as you appear to be slipping back into your old habits it would be out of character to apologise—to me. I am only to be used."
"I don't a bit understand you."