"What is your nation—birthplace?"
"England; Whitechapel, London," replied Carrick with natural taciturnity.
"Where did you get that?" continued the Minister, pointing to the medal.
"My guv'nor left it to me when he croaked."
His questioner's eyelids were raised the merest shade in non-comprehension of the vernacular.
"Your governor," he said slowly as if seeking a key to relationship. Josef smiled. The latter's exultation was that of one enjoying a possible misconstruction which might attend a literal interpretation of what he knew was idiomatic.
"Guvnor is the Whitechapel slang for father. My man many years ago told me he had received it in that way—the death of his parent," explained Carter coming to the rescue.
The stately Krovitzer bowed in acknowledgment of the explanation then continued his questioning.
"Where did he get it?" His sleepy eyes were probing deep.
"How the hell should I know," replied the irritated Cockney, who swiftly resented this prying into his affairs. Remembering himself instantly, he turned with a fine red in his face to the girl on the dais. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, for forgetting myself. It was none of 'is business," he said, defending his lapse.