"Why not?" she demanded.
"Because," he answered, with a drawling sneer, "you are like the rest of creation. You put breed before everything. Unless a man has what you are pleased to term pure blood in his veins he is beyond the pale."
"Whatever are you talking about?" said Dot, frankly mystified.
He stopped dead and faced her. "I am talking of myself, if you want to know," he told her very bitterly. "I am beyond the pale, an illegitimate son, with a strain of Red Indian in my veins to complete my damnation."
"Good gracious!" said Dot.
She stared at him for a few seconds mutely, as if the sudden announcement had taken her breath away.
At last: "Then—then—Mrs. Errol—" she stammered.
"Is not my mother," he informed her grimly. "Did you ever seriously think she was?" He flung back his shoulders arrogantly. "You're almighty blind, you English."
Dot continued to contemplate him with her frank eyes, as if viewing for the first time a specimen of some rarity.
"Well, I don't see that it makes any difference," she said at length.
"You are you just the same. I—I really don't see quite why you told me."