But the meal was, inevitably, a hurried one, and it ended, abruptly, and all too soon, when Judith rose suddenly to her feet, and drove the Imps before her, along the verandah, to say good morning to Diana's foal in the paddock.
No word of farewell was spoken.
It had become an understood thing, part of the usual routine, that the King should never say good-bye.
Left alone, the King leant back in his chair, and filled, and lit, his pipe. He always lingered for awhile, beside the disordered breakfast table, on these occasions, so that he could savour to the full, the peace, the quietness, and the beauty of his surroundings. He had learnt to store up such impressions in his memory, so that he could invoke them, for his own encouragement, in his darker hours. And, it was more than probable, that if he waited a few minutes, Uncle Bond would come out to speak to him. A sentence or two, from Judith's talk the night before, recurred to him now. Uncle Bond, really worried, was a new, and strange, phenomenon. If he could cheer the little man up, as Judith had suggested, he would be glad. He owed a great deal to Uncle Bond.
A thrush, perched at the top of a tall fir tree, near the house, whistled blithely.
The minutes passed.
Uncle Bond did not come.
At last, the King glanced reluctantly at his watch. It was seven o'clock. It was time for him to go. He must be back in the palace by eight o'clock, at the latest. He stood up. Then, conscious of a keen sense of disappointment at not seeing Uncle Bond, over and above the depression which he always felt when the moment came for him to leave Paradise, he stepped down off the verandah, and moved slowly round the side of the house, through the sunlit garden, towards the garage.
He had no hope of seeing Judith, or even the Imps, again. They would stay in the paddock, or in the hayfields beyond, until he had driven away, clear of the house, and the garden.