“Pardon me,” politely returned the Southerner, with a courteous inclination of his head, and cherishing in secret, a malicious desire to corner his host, though he must tell a lie to do it—“pardon me, I did not know. You are aware that I am a Disunionist myself. The difference I apprehend to be this: Phillips is for a Dissolution of the Union for the sake of liberty; I am for a dissolution of the Union for the sake of slavery. I state it frankly, for I wish to plainly present the fact that we are both Disunionists, though for different reasons. Now am I to infer that the fact of my Disunion sentiments would exclude me from good society here? For I have letters to some of your leading citizens, and it would indeed be awkward were I to present them where I should not be welcome.” “No, sir, no indeed, sir,” replied the merchant with sonorous emphasis. “That is a different case altogether, sir. Entirely different. We honor the spirit of Southern gentlemen in defence of their property, sir, and our first society is always open to them, Mr. Lafitte.” “You Southern gentleman are so chivalrous!” said Mrs. Atkins, with languid playfulness. “So ardent!” lisped Caroline, with a languishing glance at the Southerner. “Indeed, ladies, you overwhelm me,” returned Mr. Lafitte, gallantly; “and I am glad to perceive the true state of the case, Mr. Atkins. It is curious, however, if we look at it from one point of view, that Mr. Phillips, who, as you say, is very much of a gentleman, one of your most talented men, and belonging to one of your most respectable families—it is curious that he should be sent to Coventry by your first society for his Disunion, and we received so handsomely for ours. But then, he is for liberty, and we are for slavery, which, as you happily observed, makes an important difference. Yes, I see the distinction, and it is both broad and just. An admirable distinction, indeed, and one that does your society great credit.” 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.