Almayer shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes. And you shall set me up. I want a house and trade goods—perhaps a little money. I ask you for it.”
“Anything else you want? Perhaps this coat?” and here Almayer unbuttoned his jacket—“or my house—or my boots?”
“After all it’s natural,” went on Willems, without paying any attention to Almayer—“it’s natural that she should expect the advantages which . . . and then I could shut up that old wretch and then . . .”
He paused, his face brightened with the soft light of dreamy enthusiasm, and he turned his eyes upwards. With his gaunt figure and dilapidated appearance he looked like some ascetic dweller in a wilderness, finding the reward of a self-denying life in a vision of dazzling glory. He went on in an impassioned murmur—
“And then I would have her all to myself away from her people—all to myself—under my own influence—to fashion—to mould—to adore—to soften—to . . . Oh! Delight! And then—then go away to some distant place where, far from all she knew, I would be all the world to her! All the world to her!”
His face changed suddenly. His eyes wandered for awhile and then became steady all at once.
“I would repay every cent, of course,” he said, in a business-like tone, with something of his old assurance, of his old belief in himself, in it. “Every cent. I need not interfere with your business. I shall cut out the small native traders. I have ideas—but never mind that now. And Captain Lingard would approve, I feel sure. After all it’s a loan, and I shall be at hand. Safe thing for you.”
“Ah! Captain Lingard would approve! He would app . . .” Almayer choked. The notion of Lingard doing something for Willems enraged him. His face was purple. He spluttered insulting words. Willems looked at him coolly.
“I assure you, Almayer,” he said, gently, “that I have good grounds for my demand.”