Madame colored slightly.
"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.