In spite of Uncle Bond's announcement that Judith was waiting for him, the King lingered at the dinner table. Somehow, he did not wish—to be alone with Judith again. Was he afraid of her? Or of himself? He hardly knew. But he shrank instinctively from the ordeal. It would be an ordeal. The consequences, the inevitable consequences, of his false position, of his reckless self-indulgence, were closing about him—
Suddenly, the soft notes of the piano, in the hall, reached his ears.
Judith had begun her music, without waiting for him.
The King had no cultivated taste in music. The rattling melodies of the wardroom piano, or gramophone, were his greatest pleasure. Like most people, where music was concerned, he was merely an animal, soothed or irritated, by noise.
Judith's music was soft and low.
It soothed him.
Well, the ordeal had to be faced!
Finishing his glass of port, he stood up.
Then he passed, reluctantly, out of the dining room, into the hall.
In the hall, the shadows of the twilight were gathering fast. Judith's silver dress shone, obscurely luminous, in the far corner, where she was seated at the piano. She turned, and welcomed him with her friendly little nod, and went on playing.