“Isn’t that the explanation, Mr. Ferguson?” Paul asked; and Mr. Ferguson replied without the twitch of a muscle:
“Absolutely! I did not think that you could have understood your father’s reticence so thoroughly.”
If one must do a thing, to do it with an air is the best way to carry conviction, thought Mr. Ferguson, and he rose from his chair with a deep relief. The interview was over, his visitor obviously satisfied, he could shake him by the hand and after all catch his train to Goring.
Mr. Ferguson’s relief, however, was premature. For the younger man cried:
“Good! For now the way is clear for me, and I can ask you for your professional help.”
“Oh!” said the lawyer doubtfully. “I didn’t understand that you came as a client. I am not very sure that we can undertake much more than we have upon our hands.”
“It’s not so much more, Mr. Ferguson.”
“I must be the judge of that. Let me hear what it is that you wish.”
“I wish to resume my own real nationality,” said Paul. “I am of my race. I want the name of it, too.”
Paul was of his race. It was not merely the long-legged build of him, nor the cut of his clothes, nor the make of his shoes, but a whole combination of small, indefinable qualities and movements and repressions which proved it.