"My mother was Italian. But what makes you believe I am not English?"

"An Englishman - or an American, for that matter - 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.