"He is truly good-hearted," she said, as he disappeared. "He is not all English?"
"He is from the islands off the west coast of Scotland, but he confesses to a strain of Spanish blood also."
"And why confesses? It is not, I suppose, his own doing. One confesses to a fault. Is a strain of foreign blood a sin in your eyes then, Monsieur le Docteur?" she asked, with pointed emphasis.
"By no means. I should have said he rejoices in it."
"We English—British, I should say,"—with a fleeting gleam of a smile—"are too apt to look upon all foreigners as of lower breed than ourselves, which is quite a mistake and leads to much misunderstanding. Every nation has distinctive qualities of its own, is it not so?"
"Undoubtedly. And unless one knows them by personal experience one should not pass judgment. I must confess to being nothing of a traveller."
"How came you here?" she asked abruptly.
"I was bound for America—or Canada, with the intention of settling out there. It looks now, according to the mate, as though this strip of sand has got to suffice us for the rest of our lives."
"Really?" ... with a startled look. "Is there no getting away then? Does no one ever come here?"
"None but dead men, if they can help it, apparently. You were an exception to the rule. So were we. We have none of us any right to be here alive."