"Now, there, you see," the squire exclaimed, regretfully. "I've gone and rubbed him the wrong way, and I meant nothing in the world by it."
Langdon bowed and smiled his acceptance of the apology, though a scowl was on his face as he turned to walk down the street. From the conversation he had learned that King was expected up that day to visit his family, and a sickening shock came to him with the thought that it really was to see Virginia that he was coming. Yes, he was now sure that it had been King's attentions to the girl which had turned her against him—that and the powerful influence of Ann Boyd.
These thoughts were too much for him. He went into Asque's bar, at the hotel, called for whiskey, and remained there for hours.
Langdon was in the spacious office of the Johnston House when the evening train from Atlanta came into the old-fashioned brick car-shed at the door, and King alighted. His hand-bag was at once snatched by an admiring negro porter, and the by-standers crowded around him to shake hands. Langdon stood in the office a moment later, his brain benumbed with drink and jealous fury, and saw his rival literally received into the open arms of another eager group. Smothering an oath, the young planter leaned against the cigar-case quite near the register, over which the clerk stood triumphantly calling to King to honor the house by writing the name of the state's future governor. King had the pen in his hand, when, glancing up, he recognized Langdon, whom he had not seen since his return from the West.
"Why, how are you, Chester?" he said, cordially.
Langdon stared. His brain seemed pressed downward by some weight. The by-standers saw a strange, half-insane glare in his unsteady eyes, but he said nothing.
"Why, surely you remember me," Luke exclaimed, in honest surprise. "King's my name—Luke King. It's true I have not met you for several years, but—"
"Oh, it's King, is it?" Langdon said, calmly and with the edge of a sneer on his white, determined lip. "I didn't know if you were sure what it was. So many of your sort spring up like flies in hot weather that one can't tell much about your parentage, except on the maternal side."
There was momentous silence. The crowded room held its breath in sheer astonishment. King stared at his antagonist for an instant, hoping against hope that he had misunderstood. Then he took a deep breath. "That's a queer thing for one man to say to another," he said, fixing Chester with a steady stare. "Are you aware that a remark like that might reflect on the honor of my mother?"
"I don't care who it reflects on," retorted Chester. "You can take it any way you wish, if you have got enough backbone."