“A Maori!” they repeated; “a Maori—a Maori!”
“But she is so accomplished and graceful, and sings so splendidly,” argued Lady Nesfield.
“I believe many Maori women are graceful, and have fine voices.”
“And so fair,” objected his lordship.
“Her father was an Englishman.”
“And she never knew this till the other day. Oh, poor child!”
“The discovery you made killed the old lady,” added Lord Nesfield.
“It certainly hastened her end,” she admitted; “but, according to the doctors, she ought to have died years ago; in fact, it was a miracle she lived so long!”
“It is an extraordinary affair,” exclaimed her father, “a most terrible disclosure—it seems incredible; and that such a—I may say—unheard-of catastrophe should occur in our family——”
His family, his pedigree, was Lord Nesfield’s pride; a long descent stirred his enthusiasm; before all things in the world he respected blue blood. His ancestors had fought at Cressy and Poitiers—he claimed descent from Henry the Seventh; that his only son and heir should marry a Maori woman—the descendant of cannibals and savages! Never. He was sorry for Lumley and the girl, but his resolution was embodied in the word never.