care of herself. Magnificent eyes—slate blue, with thick, velvety black lashes. Irish.
In a moment Kitty had three eggs and half a dozen strips of bacon frying in a fresh pan. She kept one eye upon the pan and the other upon the intruder, risking strabismus. At length she transferred the contents of the pan to a plate, backed to the ice chest, and reached for a bottle of milk. She placed the food at the far end of the table and retreated a few steps, her arms crossed in such a way as to keep the revolver in view.
"Please do not be afraid of me."
"What makes you think I am?"
"Any woman would be."
Kitty saw that he was actually hungry, and her suspicions began to ebb. He hadn't lied about that. And he ate like a gentleman. Young, not more than thirty; possibly less. But that dreadful stubble and that black eye! The clothes would have passed muster on any fashionable golf links. A fugitive? From what?
"Thank you," he said, setting down the empty milk bottle.
"Your accent is English."
"Which is to say?"
"That your gestures are Italian."
"My mother was Italian. But what makes you believe I am not English?"
"An Englishman—or an American, for that mat mat-
