He was first struck by the resemblance of the place to a calendar picture of an old English pub. A wheel of candle-shaped lights hung over the bar; the dark paneling, the solid benches, and especially the covey of costumed students gathered at a large table in the rear all fit in the Old World setting. Even the bartender, his shirt open at the throat, his sleeves rolled up, and his face a ruddy moon, belonged where he was. He was drawing dark beer for a couple of men in work shirts at the end of the bar. Marks studied the youngsters and was impressed by the fact that while one of them talked, earnest, animated, the others were actually listening. He wondered if even the listening was an affectation. His own attention focused then on the one girl amongst them: she was playing her fingers through the long hair of the boy next to her. Her own hair sat like a red beehive atop her head. The bartender came to him. His small blue eyes were round and sharp as steel. An Irishman, Marks thought, a canny Irishman.
