"He has—England," Uncle Bond said gravely.
"And I have the Imps, and you," Judith replied.
Then she stooped down, suddenly, and kissed the little man.
"Good night," she said. "I am going straight to bed. I am very tired."
And she turned, and hurried out of the room—
For some time, Uncle Bond remained motionless at the writing table.
The night was very still. An owl called, eerily, from the garden. A dog barked in some distant farmyard.
At last, the little man rose to his feet, crossed to the sofa again, and stood looking down at the King's face which showed pallid, drawn, and, somehow, it seemed to him now, old, in the dim, half light.
"The band, I think, must be playing—somewhere—" he muttered.