“You don’t parade it. My mother makes capital out of it.”
“But,” insisted Mr. Garrison, “you are an American; you were born here; you know no other home. English is your mother tongue.”
“Yes, but race is stronger than language. My people were Swiss peasants. I may look and speak like a gentleman, but sometimes the lout in me is hard to suppress.”
There was a silence. Mr. Garrison changed the subject.
“Are you going into your father’s business?”
“No—I’d smash it with my mad notions.” Then he flashed a bright look. “I’ve been daubing in oil; it’s the only thing that interests me. I shall go to Paris to study, if I live.”
Mr. Garrison was all animation. “That’s very good news. You will live; you’re young, strong.”
“Who knows—America is going into the wholesale slaughter business. She needs butchers.”
“You mean—”
“I think we’ll be pushed into the War.”