He had reached a point, he was suddenly conscious now, not far removed from complete exhaustion.
In a little while, Judith, as she had promised, began to talk.
"You will see Uncle Bond, in the morning, of course," she remarked. "You will do him good. He is in rather a bad way, just at present, poor old dear. The new serial seems to be giving him a lot of trouble. 'Cynthia St. Claire' isn't functioning properly, at the moment. He's locked himself up, for several nights now, without any result. He says it doesn't seem to matter how many candles he lights. 'Cynthia' still eludes him. It really is a sort of Jekyll and Hyde business with him, you know. If he is to do any work, he has to be 'Cynthia St. Claire,' and not James Bond. It is plain James Bond we prefer, of course. But it is 'Cynthia' who makes all the money, you know.
"The worst of it is, in spite of what Uncle Bond says, I am afraid it isn't all 'Cynthia's' fault this time. He's been running up to town, and knocking about the clubs, a good deal lately. That is nearly always a sign that he is trying to dodge 'Cynthia.' It is almost as if he had got something on his mind. Seeing you will do him good. He always gets what he calls a flow on, when you have been over. He wants it badly now. The new story is three instalments behind the time-table already. Part of his trouble, I think, is that he is working on a plain heroine. He does them alternately, you know. One Plain. The next Ringlets. This one, I understand, is very plain. He misses the chance, I believe, of filling in with purple passages of personal description. You have read some of Uncle Bond's stuff, haven't you? Officially, I am not allowed to. Unofficially, of course, I read every word of it I can get hold of. It's wonderful how he keeps it up, isn't it? And, every now and then, in spite of 'Cynthia,' he slips in something, without knowing it, which only James Bond could have written. All sorts of unexpected people read him, you know. He says it is the name, and not the stuff, that does the trick. I think that it is the stuff. People like romance. Uncle Bond gives it to them."
At that moment, the sleep, of which the King stood in such dire need, long overdue as it was, touched his eyelids.
Judith shot out her arm, and skilfully retrieved the half empty glass, which all but fell from his hand.
A little later, when he awoke with a start, conscious of the strange refreshment which even a moment's sleep brings, he found that Judith's hand was in his.
"It has been a wonderful summer," Judith murmured. "If the sun did not shine again, for months, we should have no right to complain. First the lilac, and the chestnuts, and the hawthorn; then the laburnum and the rhododendrons; and now the wild roses are beginning to show in the hedges. The skylarks singing at dawn; the cuckoo calling all day; the thrushes and the blackbirds whistling in the hot afternoon; and the nightingales, singing at night, as they are singing now! The bright sun in the morning, the blue sky, and the green of the trees. The haymakers at work in the fields. The whir of the haycutting machine. The Imps tumbling over each other in the hay, and calling to me. Diana's foal in the paddock, all long legs, and short tail. The wren's nest in the garden, with six little wrens in it for Jenny Wren to feed. The afternoon sunlight on the trees; Uncle Bond in the garden, chuckling over his roses; the sunset; the young rabbits, with their white bob-tails, scuttling in and out of the hedges; a patter of rain on the leaves; the breeze in the trees; the twilight; the cool of the evening; and then the blue of the night sky, the stars, and the golden moon, in a bed of billowy, drifting clouds. The scent of the hayfields, the scent of the flowers; and the nightingales singing, in the garden, as they are singing now!
"The nightingales are singing about it all. Can you hear what they say? I have been trying to put the nightingales' song into words. Listen! Those long, liquid notes—"
The night air was heavy with the scent of the night-blossoming stock, in the flowerbed, immediately below the verandah rail. The nightingales sang as if at the climax of their rivalry for mastery. A huge owl lumbered, rather than flew, across the shadowy garden.