"I supposed you were--" "My-de'-seh," exclaimed M.Grandissime, suddenly becoming very earnest, "I am nothing, nothing! There is where you have the advantage of me.

I am but a _dilettante_, whether in politics, in philosophy, morals, or religion.

I am afraid to go deeply into anything, lest it should make ruin in my name, my family, my property." He laughed unpleasantly.
The question darted into Frowenfeld's mind, whether this might not be a hint of the matter that M.Grandissime had been trying to see him about.
"Mr.Grandissime," he said, "I can hardly believe you would neglect a duty either for family, property, or society." "Well, you mistake," said the Creole, so coldly that Frowenfeld colored.
They galloped on.

M.Grandissime brightened again, almost to the degree of vivacity.

By and by they slackened to a slow trot and were silent.
The gardens had been long left behind, and they were passing between continuous Cherokee-rose hedges on the right and on the left, along that bend of the Mississippi where its waters, glancing off three miles above from the old De Macarty levee (now Carrollton), at the slightest opposition in the breeze go whirling and leaping like a herd of dervishes across to the ever-crumbling shore, now marked by the little yellow depot-house of Westwego.