The botanist blesses his heart.
"Consequently"—the official sighs at the burthen of such nonsense, "you will have to go and consult with—the people you ought to be."
I betray a faint amusement.
"You will have to end by believing in our planet," I say.
He waggles a negation with his head. He would intimate his position is too responsible a one for jesting, and both of us in our several ways enjoy the pleasure we poor humans have in meeting with intellectual inferiority. "The Standing Committee of Identification," he says, with an eye on a memorandum, "has remitted your case to the Research Professor of Anthropology in the University of London, and they want you to go there, if you will, and talk to him."