Then he set him down on his feet again, and turning—saw Button, on the other side of his chair.
"Wonderful harvest weather, this we're having," Button remarked. "But, if it's good for the hay, it's bad for the roots. We want rain for the roots, there's no denying."
It was an extremely elderly Button who spoke.
The King recognized one of the youngster's habitual quotations.
It sounded like the weather lore of old Jevons, the gardener.
"It's Coronation weather, you see, Button," he said absently.
Button became all boy, seven-year-old boy, at once.
"Were you in the procession, Uncle Alfred?" he cried. "Mother told us about it. Did you see the King? Did you wear your sword? Did the people cheer?"
"Tell us about the flags, and the 'luminations, and the fireworks," Bill demanded, joining in, in the little hurricane of questions. "Mother says the King rode in his coach. Why didn't he ride on one of his horses? Did he wear his crown in the coach? Is his crown heavy?"
"Mother says the King is quite young. That is funny, isn't it?" Button predominated. "All the Kings in the fairy stories are old, old men, with long, white beards. Do you think he likes being King? Mother says he has to work very hard, that he can't do just what he likes, and please himself, that he always has to think—first of England, and never of himself. That doesn't sound as if he had much fun, does it?"