“How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“Where do you live?”
“In New York and Washington.” If he could be laconic, so could I.
“You were born in America?”
“No. I was born in Paris.” By this time questions and answers were like the pop of rifle-shots.
“That was a long way from home. Lucky you chose the country of one of our Allies.” Was this sarcasm or would-be humor? It had an unpleasant ring.
“Glad you like it,” I responded, with a cold stare, “but I didn’t pick it.”
“Well, if you weren’t born in the States, are you an American citizen?” he imperturbably pursued.
“If you’ll consult my passport, you’ll see that I am.”