Paul flushed and started. "I'm not a gipsy."
"Steady, steady," exclaimed the artist. "I've just said you couldn't be one. Italian? You don't look English."
For the first time the idea of exotic parentage entered Paul's head. He dallied for a moment or two with the thought. "I dunno what I am," he said romantically.
"Oh? What's your father?" The young man motioned with his head toward the inn.
"Yon's not my father," said Paul. "It's only Barney Bill."
"Only Barney Bill?" echoed the other, amused. "Well, who is your father?"
"Dunno," said Paul.
"And your mother?"
"Dunno, either," said Paul, in a mysterious tone. "I dunno if my parents are living or dead. I think they're living."
"That's interesting. What are you doing with what's-his-name Bill?"