‘Without a character?’ asked Anthea, who had heard her mother speak of such things.
‘They do not wish to engage her as cook, but as queen; and queens need not have characters.’
There was a breathless pause.
‘WELL,’ said Cyril, ‘of all the choices! But there’s no accounting for tastes.’
Every one laughed at the idea of the cook’s being engaged as queen; they could not help it.
‘I do not advise laughter,’ warned the Phoenix, ruffling out his golden feathers, which were extremely wet. ‘And it’s not their own choice. It seems that there is an ancient prophecy of this copper-coloured tribe that a great queen should some day arise out of the sea with a white crown on her head, and—and—well, you see! There’s the crown!’
It pointed its claw at cook’s cap; and a very dirty cap it was, because it was the end of the week.
‘That’s the white crown,’ it said; ‘at least, it’s nearly white—very white indeed compared to the colour THEY are—and anyway, it’s quite white enough.’
Cyril addressed the cook. ‘Look here!’ said he, ‘these brown people want you to be their queen. They’re only savages, and they don’t know any better. Now would you really like to stay? or, if you’ll promise not to be so jolly aggravating at home, and not to tell any one a word about to-day, we’ll take you back to Camden Town.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said the cook, in firm, undoubting tones. ‘I’ve always wanted to be the Queen, God bless her! and I always thought what a good one I should make; and now I’m going to. IF it’s only in a dream, it’s well worth while. And I don’t go back to that nasty underground kitchen, and me blamed for everything; that I don’t, not till the dream’s finished and I wake up with that nasty bell a rang-tanging in my ears—so I tell you.’