Clyde, the Englishman, was also blond and blue-eyed, and right there the resemblance ended, except for the indefinable something in each of them that set them apart from the rest of us, the thing you can't put a finger on or describe in any way, but that you can't miss either. Breeding. Clyde's hair was dull and lusterless, and he wore it a little too long, and his blue eyes had a grayish flatness, and his skin wasn't ruddy like Buchalter's but clear and colorless and transparent. He had a long nose and his voice was high, and he dressed carelessly in those ridiculous shorts the English wear in tropical climates, the ones that reach to the knee. Some part of the indescribable resemblance showed through, though, in the way Clyde dressed; in the silly-looking shorts and the ribbed woolen stockings rolled just below his knees he had the same correct elegance that Buchalter had in his perfect uniforms.
They hated each other with a cold, implacable and courteous hatred, and an incident could not have been postponed as long as it was if they had not both been constrained by a common shame, if each had not realized that the other was just as much out of place here breaking international laws as himself; and the corollary, the inescapable reminder that he himself should not be here. It held them in check, and at the same time it fanned the loathing they felt for one another.