"Go along with you," the girl said, but there was no rebuke in her voice. "He's waiting for you."
"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
"Ask me when you come back," the girl said. "If I'm still here, I will."
"I'll be back," he said. He walked through the door and closed it behind him. He stopped there, gazing at the man who sat at the desk in the small room.
He was a short man, with a face Kevan thought of as jolly even though it seemed pinched with worry. Tufts of golden blond hair ringed a bald head, resembling a halo. He looked up from his cluttered desk and studied Kevan.
"MacGreene, is it?" he said finally. "Where were you born?"
"In New York," Kevan answered, wondering at the question.
"And your father?"
"Fergus MacGreene. He was born in the old country, Ulster, I think, but he became a citizen as soon as he could after arriving here." He wondered if this was some sort of loyalty check.
"You hear voices, do you?" the little man asked.