ter—with money in his pocket would have gone into the street in search of a restaurant."
"You are right. The fundamentals of the blood will always crop out. You can educate the brain but not the blood. I am not an Englishman; I merely received my education at Oxford."
"A fugitive, however, of any blood might have come to my window."
"Yes; I am a fugitive, pursued by the god of Irony. And Irony is never particular; the chase is the thing. What matters it whether the quarry be wolf or sheep?"
Kitty was impressed by the bitterness of the tone. "What is your name?"
"John Hawksley."
"But that is English!"
"I should not care to call myself Two-Hawks, literally. It would be embarrassing. So I call myself Hawksley."
A pause. Kitty wondered what new impetus she might give to the conversation, which was interesting her despite her distrust.
"How did you come by that black eye?" she asked with embarrassing directness.
Hawksley smiled, revealing beautifully white teeth. "I say, it is a bit off, isn't it! I received it"—a twinkle coming into his eyes—"in a situation that had moribund perspectives."
"Moribund perspectives," repeated Kitty, casting
