“Natalie ought to be grateful to you, madame,” said he lightly, “for your solicitude about her.  It is not often one finds that in one who is not related by blood.”

“I have no one now left in the world to love but herself,” said madame; “and then you see, my dear friend Lind, her position appeals to one:  it is sad that she has no mother.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lind, with a trifle of impatience.  “Now you were good enough to come and tell me this afternoon, madame, about that foolish little romance that Natalie has got into her head.  It was kind of you; it was well-intentioned.  And after all, although that wish of hers to go to America can scarcely be serious, it is but natural that romantic ideas should get into the head of a younger girl—­”

“Did not I say that to her?” exclaimed Madame Potecki, eagerly; “and almost in these words too.  And did not I say to her, ’Ah, my child, you must take care; you must take care!’”

“That also was good advice,” said Lind, courteously; “and no doubt Natalie laid it to her heart.  No, I am not afraid of her doing anything very wild or reckless.  She is sensible; she thinks; she has not been brought up in an atmosphere of sentiment.  One may say this or that on the spur of the moment, when one is excited; but when it comes to action, one reasons, one sees what one’s duty is.  Natalie may have said something to you, madame, about going to America, but not with any serious intention, believe me.”

“Perhaps not,” said Madame Potecki, with considerable hesitation.

“Very well, then,” said Mr. Lind, as he rose, and stood before the chimney-piece mirror, and arranged the ends of his gracefully tied neckerchief.  “We come to another point.  It was very kind of you, my dear madame, to bring me the news—­to tell me something of that sort had been said; but you know what ill-natured people will remark.  You get no appreciation.  They call you tale-bearer!”

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?”