Mrs. Ascott-Smith looked at him anxiously. His sister had married a British peer. "But you Americans are quite distinct from the red Indians," she said. "We quite understand that nowadays. To be sure, my dear Aunt—" She stopped.
"Rather!" said Mrs. Archie Brawle. "You don't even intermarry with them, do you?"
"That is a matter of personal taste," said Mr. Carteret. "There is no law against it."
"But nobody that one knows—" began Mrs. Ascott-Smith.
"There was John Rohlfs," said Mr. Carteret; "he was a very well known chap."
"Do you know him?" asked Mrs. Brawle.
The Curate sniggered. His hour of triumph had come. "Rohlfs is dead," he said.
"Really!" said Mrs. Brawle, coldly. "It had quite slipped my mind. You see I never read the papers during the hunting. But is his wife received?"
"I believe that she was," said Mr. Carteret.
The Curate was still sniggering and Mrs. Brawle put her glass in her eye and looked at him. Then she turned to Mr. Carteret. "But all this," she said, "of course, has nothing to do with the question. Do you think that these red Indians could ride bareback across our country?"