"You have had a good night? You slept?" she said. "The Imps were very anxious to wake you as usual. But I thought you would like to sleep on this morning. No, Bill. This is Uncle Alfred's coffee. That is right, Button. That is Uncle Alfred's chair."
It was Uncle Alfred, accordingly, who sat down in his usual place at the breakfast table, with his back to the house, facing the garden.
His friend, the Duke, sat down opposite to him.
The Imps scrambled up on to their chairs, on Judith's right and left.
Uncle Bond presided at the head of the table.
The meal began.
It was a strange meal, the strangest of the many strange meals which the King had known. The two parts which he had kept distinct for so long seemed now, somehow, suddenly to blend, to mingle, without any difficulty. He was Alfred, the sailor, again. And yet, he was—the King—
With the Imps at the table, there was no lack of conversation.
Once they had finished their porridge, the Imps were free to talk. They talked. To each other. To themselves. To anybody. To nobody in particular.
A lengthy dialogue between Bill, and a wholly invisible small boy called John, who had, apparently, a regrettable habit of grabbing his food, seemed to appeal, in particular, to the Duke, who entered into the play, with an imaginative readiness which the King had somehow never suspected.