"Well, if you've really marked it on the map," said I, "it is only reasonable to assume that the kingdom of Illyria is in a state of being."
"You are too absurd," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "The place is well known and its king is famous."
"I wonder if there is decent shootin' in Illyria," said Joseph Jocelyn De Vere, with that air of tacit condescension which gained him advancement throughout the English-speaking world. "One might try it for a week to show one has no feelin' against it."
"Where there is a king there is always decent shooting," I ventured to observe.
Mrs. Arbuthnot returned to her newspaper.
"They want to form a republic in Illyria," she announced, "but the old king is determined to thwart them."
"A bit of a sportsman, evidently," said her brother. "But never mind Illyria. Give me some more coffee. We've got to be at the Cross Roads by eleven."
"No mortal use, I am afraid," said I. "The glass has gone right back. And look through the window."
"Good old British climate! And on that side they've got one of the best bits o' country in the shires, and Morton's covers are always choke-full of foxes."
In spite of his pessimism, however, my relation by marriage continued to deal faithfully with the modest repast that had been offered him. Also he was fain to inquire of the mistress of the house whether enough sandwiches had been cut and whether both flasks had been filled; and from the nominal head of our modest establishment he sought to learn what arrangements had been made for the second horsemen.