“Have you been at Ardsley recently?” he asked.
“Left there only a few days ago.”
“You haven’t seen your governor lately, have you?”
“My governor?” Ardmore stared blankly. “Why, Mr. Billings, don’t you remember that father’s dead?”
“I don’t mean your father, Ardy,” replied Billings, with the exaggerated care of one who deals with extreme stupidity. “I mean the Governor of North Carolina—one of the American states. Ardsley is still in North Carolina, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, of course. But bless your soul, I don’t know the governor. Why should one?”
“I don’t know why, Ardy; but people sometimes do know governors and find it useful.”
“I’m not in politics any more, Mr. Billings. What’s this person’s name?”
“Dangerfield. Don’t you ever read the newspapers?” demanded the secretary, striving to control his inner rage. He was in trouble, and Ardmore’s opaqueness taxed his patience. And yet Tommy Ardmore had given him less trouble than any other member of the Ardmore family. The others galloped gaily through their incomes; Tommy was rapidly augmenting his inheritance from sheer neglect or inability to scatter his dividends.
“No; I quit reading newspapers after the noble Duke of Ballywinkle didn’t break the bank at Monte Carlo that last time. I often wish, Mr. Billings, that the Mohawks had scalped my great-grandfather before they bought his whisky. That would have saved me the personal humiliation of being brother-in-law to a duke.”