"He had a wretchedly thin field out again yesterday," said Mrs.
Hoopington. "Why you didn't bring one or two hunting men down with
you, instead of that stupid Russian boy, I can't think."
"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."
Mrs. Hoopington sniffed. Most people with whom Vladimir came in
contact found his high spirits infectious, but his present hostess
was guaranteed immune against infection of that sort.
"I hear him coming in now," she observed. "I shall go and get ready
for tea. We're going to have it here in the hall. Entertain the
Major if he comes in before I'm down, and, above all, be bright."
Norah was dependent on her aunt's good graces for many little things
that made life worth living, and she was conscious of a feeling of
discomfiture because the Russian youth whom she had brought down as
a welcome element of change in the country-house routine was not
making a good impression.
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