There were girls whose interest in America was founded on their impression that magnificent Indian chieftains in blankets and feathers stalked about the streets of the towns, and that Betty's own thick black hair had been handed down to her by some beautiful Minnehaha or Pocahontas.

When first she was approached by timid, tentative questionings revealing this point of view, Betty felt hot and answered with unamiable curtness.

No, there were no red Indians in New York.

There had been no red Indians in her family.

She had neither grandmothers nor aunts who were squaws, if they meant that.
She felt so scornfully, so disgustedly indignant at their benighted ignorance, that she knew she behaved very well in saying so little in reply.