She had thought to find some touch of the Boweryite about him, some outcropping of the half-submerged bunco-steerer. Instead of that, both his look and his tone carried some tinge of quiet yet dominant gentility, reminding her, as she had so often been taught before, that the criminal is not a type in himself, that only fanciful and far-stretched generalizations could detach him as a species, or immure and mark him off from the rest of his kind.
She glanced at him still again, at the seemingly melancholic and contemplative face, that strangely reminded her of Dürer's portrait of himself. As she did so there was carried to her memory, and imprinted on it, the picture of a wistful and lonely man, his countenance touched, for all its open Irish smile, with some wordless sorrow, some pensive isolation of soul, lean and gaunt with some undefined hunger, a little furtive and covert with some half-concealed restlessness.
"Aren't you an American?" he was asking, almost hopefully, it seemed to her.
"Oh, no," she answered, with her sober, slow smile. "I'm an Englishwoman!"
He shook his head, whimsically.
"Indeed, I'm sorry for that!" said the Celt.
She joined in his laugh.
"But I've lived abroad so much!" she added.
"Then you must know Italy pretty well, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; I've traveled here, winter after winter."