Later on, Diggs returned from the kitchen and approached Mr. Bingle, who was sitting beside the stove with his back to the door, holding Rosemary and Rutherford on his knees.
"Dinner is served, sir," said Diggs in his most formal, dignified manner.
Mr. Bingle looked up, surprised by a voice that came resounding down from the past. The children were already staring open-mouthed at Diggs, who stood attired in his well-remembered dress-suit, the imposing, self-contained figure of a butler of the most approved type.
"God bless my soul," gasped Mr. Bingle.
"Quite so, sir," said Diggs smoothly. He drew out Mr. Bingle's chair, and the little man, completely dazed, sank abruptly into it. The children found their places, chattering like magpies.
"Lest they forget," said Diggs, leaning over to speak softly in Mr. Bingle's ear.
Then came Watson, in braid and buttons, stiff as a ramrod, chin high in the air, and as supercilious as any footman in all the world, carrying the soup. After a long, dry-eyed stare at the familiar figure that had always seemed so unreal to him in the days when everything belonged to fairyland, Mr. Bingle dropped his eyes and began fumbling blindly for the bone-handled fork at his plate.
He heard Frederick cry out: "I don't want to go away now, Daddy! Hurray! We've got Diggs and Watson back!" And then came the eager cries of many other voices, all of one accord. They wanted to stay! He suddenly knew why.
Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Through the mist that covered his eyes, he saw the champagne glass that stood alone beside his plate.