Mr. Lafitte said all this so courteously—with such flattering and affable sincerity of voice and manner—that his listeners had not the slightest apprehension of the terrific sarcasm which lurked in his words. They took it all as an elaborate compliment, and sat smiling and simpering at him, each after his or her respective fashion. The damned, mean, contemptible, servile curs—tabooing their own Disunionists, and ducking and smiling to ours!—was Mr. Lafitte’s irreverent mental reflection, as, softly fingering his moustache, with the most affable of smiles lighting his rich brunette complexion, he equably surveyed them—floods of contemptuous disgust meanwhile raging delightedly in his lordly bosom.
“Oh, Mr. Atkins,” said the lady of the house, “I almost forgot to tell you that a—a person called to see you, and is up-stairs in the library.”
“A person. Who is he? I can’t see persons now. Send up word that I’m engaged,” returned the merchant, somewhat brusquely.
“Michael thought he was a sailor,” drawled Mrs. Atkins, in her fal-lal voice; “and he said he’d come on business of importance, and that you’d want to see him.”
“Oh, business. That’s another affair,” returned her husband, rising and looking at his watch. “Business before pleasure always. You’ll excuse me a few moments, Mr. Lafitte. I’ll be right down.”
“Certainly, sir, certainly,” said the Southerner, blandly bowing.
Mr. Atkins at once left the drawing-room and went up-stairs into the library. The visitor, a short, strongly-built man, with a sunburnt face, who was slowly walking up and down, with his hands in his pockets, came toward him as he entered.
“Why, Captain Bangham! You? How are you?” exclaimed the merchant, smiling, and shaking hands with him.
“All right, Mr. Atkins. How are you, sir?”
“Capital. And so the Soliman’s in.”