A dusky veil, which was not darkness, had been drawn over the room, when Uncle Bond blew out the candles. Outside the windows, there was still a luminous glow in the sky, where one or two stars shone palely. A couple of bats fluttered, to and fro, across the length of the windows. Some martins, settling down for the night, in their nests, under the eaves of the house, twittered excitedly—
"Shall we talk?" Uncle Bond asked suddenly. "I am ready to talk. And yet—I have no great faith in words. 'Cynthia' uses them. But plain James Bond has learnt their danger. After all, when an action speaks for itself, why use words? They will probably be the wrong words."
"I do not think that I want to talk, Uncle Bond," the King said slowly.
It seemed to him, now, that he had already said enough, perhaps too much, when he had entered the room.
"I am content," Uncle Bond said. "I am not afraid of silence."
Silence, at the moment, was welcome to the King—
It was a soothing, sedative silence, which brought with it the first hush of night.
The King settled himself, more comfortably, at full length, on the sofa.
Uncle Bond neither moved, nor spoke.
Some time passed.