"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 the phrase about in her
mind in search of an equivalent less academic.
"I am young and healthy, and I wanted to live," he said, gravely. "I am
curious to know what is going to happen to-morrow and other to-morrows."
Somewhere near by a door was slammed violently. Kitty, every muscle in
her body tense, jumped convulsively, with the result that her finger
pressed automatically the trigger of her pistol. The fan popped out
gayly.
Hawksley stared at the fan, quite as astonished as Kitty. Then he broke
into low, rollicking laughter, which Kitty, because her basic corpuscle
was Irish, perforce had to join. For all her laughter she retreated,
furious and alarmed.
"Fancy! I say, now, you're jolly plucky to face a scoundrel like me with
that."
"I don't just know what to make of you," said Kitty, irresolutely,
flinging the fan into a corner.
"You have revivified a celestial spark--my faith in human beings. I beg
of you not to be afraid of me. I am quite harmless. I am very grateful
for the meal. Yours is the one act of kindness I have known in weeks. I
will return to Gregor's apartment at once. But before I go please accept
this. I rather suspect, you know, that you live alone, and that fan is
amusing and not particularly suitable." He rose and unsmilingly laid
upon the table one of those heavy blue-black bull-dogs of war, a
regulation revolver. Kitty understood what this courteous act signified;
he was disarming himself to reassure her.