“That is the governor of Illinois,” Mrs. Wilbur exclaimed, blushing unconsciously at the spectacle. “Oh, it’s a shame—here of all times—before the people.”
“They don’t seem to like it—the people,” Erard remarked, as low cries of “Shame, shame,” rose on all sides.
“Why, this is a public disgrace before the world!” Mrs. Wilbur seemed to take the affair personally.
“He has other bad habits, I have heard.” Erard spoke jauntily. Mrs. Wilbur looked at him with startled eyes. “What have you heard?”
“If all one hears is only a quarter true, your governor should be accompanied by his familiar spirit, his Mephisto of the golden touch.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Wilbur had an irrational apprehension in her voice.
“Why, they name the exact figure he received from Mephisto for his soul—if he has one. The Thunderer came out with it this morning in dollars and cents, one hundred thousand odd.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Wilbur turned her face away as if personally relieved. “Mere newspaper stories. Dick doesn’t like him.”
Erard shrugged his shoulders sceptically. “Others say it beside ‘Capitalist Dick.’ And it is a picturesque fable anyway: it all suits.” He motioned down the avenue whither the reeling figure of the governor had disappeared. “Drunk with wine and wealth: your democracy has reached a wallowing era.”
“That cannot be true.” Mrs. Wilbur returned to the Thunderer’s accusation. Erard looked at her ironically, as if amused at her earnestness.