By such pitiful artifices as these the world is duped, and Silas Craig was universally respected in New Orleans; respected in outward seeming by men who in their inmost soul loathed and execrated him.
With a bland smile, he obeyed Gerald Leslie's gesture, and seated himself in a low rocking-chair, opposite the planter.
"Charming weather, Mr. Leslie," he said.
"Charming," answered Gerald, absently.
"I trust I see you well, my dear friend," murmured Silas Craig, in the fat, oily voice peculiar to him, "and yet," he added, almost affectionately, "I do not think you are looking well—no, decidedly not, you look a little harassed; a little care-worn, as if the business of this life was pressing too much upon you."
"I have good need to look harassed and care-worn," answered Gerald Leslie, impatiently. "Come, Mr. Craig, do not let us waste our time upon fine speeches, and sympathy which we cannot either of us expect to feel—I know what you have come here for, and you know that I know it, so why beat about the bush? You have my acceptance, due to-day in your pocket, and you come to claim payment."
"You are as proud as ever, Mr. Leslie," said the usurer, an angry gleam shooting out of his small eyes, in spite of the affected smile upon his lips.
"Why should I be less proud than ever?" answered the planter, haughtily. "If you call a contempt for falsehood, and a loathing of hypocrisy pride, I am certainly among the proudest."
Gerald Leslie knew that every word he uttered was calculated to infuriate Silas Craig, and that, at the moment when he had to ask a favor of him; but the haughty spirit of the planter could less brook to stoop now than ever—the very fact of having to ask this favor stung him to the quick, and urged him on to show his contempt of the man from whom he had to ask it.
The usurer sat for some few moments in silence, rubbing his hands slowly, one over the other, and looking furtively at Gerald.