“Vladimir isn’t stupid,” protested her niece; “he’s one of the most amusing boys I ever met. Just compare him for a moment with some of your heavy hunting men⁠—”

“Anyhow, my dear Norah, he can’t ride.”

“Russians never can; but he shoots.”

“Yes; and what does he shoot? Yesterday he brought home a woodpecker in his game-bag.”

“But he’d shot three pheasants and some rabbits as well.”

“That’s no excuse for including a woodpecker in his game-bag.”

“Foreigners go in for mixed bags more than we do. A grand duke pots a vulture just as seriously as we should stalk a bustard. Anyhow, I’ve explained to Vladimir that certain birds are beneath his dignity as a sportsman. And as he’s only nineteen, of course, his dignity is a sure thing to appeal to.”