“Levy,” said Egerton, coldly, though a deep blush overspread his face, “you are a scoundrel; that is your look-out. I interfere with no man’s tastes and conscience. I don’t intend to be a scoundrel myself. I have told you that long ago.”
The usurer’s brows darkened, but he dispelled the cloud with an easy laugh.
“Well,” said he, “you are neither wise nor complimentary, but you shall have the money. But yet, would it not be better,” added Levy, with emphasis, “to borrow it without interest, of your friend L’Estrange?”
Egerton started as if stung.
“You mean to taunt me, sir!” he exclaimed passionately. “I accept pecuniary favours from Lord L’Estrange!—I!”
“Tut, my dear Egerton, I dare say my Lord would not think so ill now of that act in your life which—”
“Hold!” exclaimed Egerton, writhing. “Hold!”
He stopped, and paced the room, muttering, in broken sentences, “To blush before this man! Chastisement, chastisement!”
Levy gazed on him with hard and sinister eyes. The minister turned abruptly.
“Look you, Levy,” said he, with forced composure, “you hate me—why, I know not.”