But, no, she was wrong: Tekewani had been the servant and child of a system which was as fixed and historical as that of Russia or Spain.

He belonged to a people who had traditions and laws of their own; organized communities moving here and there, but carrying with them their system, their laws and their national feeling.
There was the difference.

This Romany was the child of irresponsibility, the being that fed upon life, that did not feed life; that left one place in the world to escape into another; that squeezed one day dry, threw it away, and then went seeking another day to bleed; for ever fleeing from yesterday, and using to-day only as a camping-ground.
Suddenly, however, she came to a stop in her reflections.

Her father, Gabriel Druse, was of the same race as this man, the same unorganized, irresponsible, useless race, with no weight of civic or social duty upon its shoulders--where did he stand?
Was he no better than such as Jethro Fawe?
Was he inferior to such as Ingolby, or even Tekewani?
She realized that in her father's face there was the look of one who had no place in the ambitious designs of men, who was not a builder, but a wayfarer.

She had seen the look often of late, and had never read it until now, when Jethro Fawe stared at her with the boldness of possession, with the insolence of a soul of lust which had had its victories.
She read his look, and while one part of her shrank from him as from some noisome thing, another part of her--to her dismay and anger--understood him, and did not resent him.