When, returning, from her own world, she re-entered Armingham House, the party was over. Its livelier members had gone to other staircases. The Archdeacon, as became his office, went straight home to bed. Lord Geoffrey, caped and hatted, strolled quietly to "Liberty Hall," the town-house of an Anglicized American, Mr. Barnett Q. Moss, who had fifteen millions and dyspepsia.
The very last ball of a lively season was there in full swing. Geoffrey enjoyed watching the plutocracy at play, and sharing their wildness. It was tonic to his well-bred nerves. After three hours of a perfect mother, it meant a bracing change.
June went too.
Meanwhile Bim had tucked himself up in the throstle's nest and slept like a top--however that may be. He did not stir till the morning was white. Then he rose--a mite refreshed--and came down from his fastness with a run.
He found Tim, and listened to him talking in his sleep. The royal tramp in his dreams was addressing legions. Bim awoke him. Tim continued his oratory to the trees. He was Cæsar and Buonaparte--two gentlemen in one. He seemed from his description to be wearing a laurel wreath round his neck, and trousers of imperial purple, ermine-lined. Every woe which wandering mankind suffers from was instantly and absolutely abolished--so far as mere words could abolish them--by autocratic decree. His Majesty Tim!
He stood up, wiped his feet on the grass, and looked about at the park. The pride of ownership shone in his eyes. All this belonged to him. His face had a new expression containing something of noble gentleness, a very pale reflex of the divinity that doth hedge a king. He wiped his lips with his sleeve and smiled. He settled his battered hat--his diamonded golden crown--daintily on the forefront of his head, and shambled towards Oxford Street for the tramp-man's breakfast, which, thanks to Bim of Fairyland, would taste henceforth as some delicious repast on a golden dish. His future tasks--poor casual ward businesses--would be noble services performed to aid mankind.
Being a king incognito, Tim did not advertise his estate. He and the fairies--they alone--knew of his royalty. There are more such monarchs amongst us than we wot of.
Bim was contemplating the tramp's retreating figure when happiness came to him. June would enjoy the delights of victory yet.
Her appeal to Elfdom had been answered. Here was one to help. Down from the skies and over the grass a fairy was hurrying. It was Auna of the Violet Valley; her purple wings fluttered wearily. There was no happiness in her mien. The oppressiveness of London was upon her.
"Gnome!" she asked weakly, "where in this horrid world is June?"