"My God, those tops!"
"By a local draughtsman," said I, "of the name of Bussey. He is careful in the measurements and takes a drawing of the foot."
"'Orrible. You look like a Cossack at the Hippodrome."
"The Madam patronises an establishment in Bond Street. One is given to understand that various royalties follow her example."
"They make for the King of Illyria," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.
"That is interesting," said I, in response to a quizzical glance from the breakfast table. "The fact is, my amiable coadjutor in the things of this life has a decided weakness for royalty. She denies it vehemently and betrays it shamelessly on every possible occasion."
"Very interestin' indeed," said her brother.
In the next moment a cry of surprise floated out of the depths of the halfpenny newspaper.
"What a coincidence!" exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot. "There has been an attempt on the life of the King of Illyria. They have thrown a bomb into his palace and killed the brother of the Prime Minister."
"In the interests of the shareholders of the Daily Courier," said I.