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."