It was not the Duke.
It was Uncle Bond.
"Whether you fight for your place or not, whether you come out at the head, or the tail, of the procession, wherever the head and the tail may be, whether you step to one side, or fall out altogether, whatever happens to you, my boy, Judith and I, will always be glad to welcome you to the inn at the corner, and give you a seat at our window. You will remember that!"
A thrill of exultation ran through the King.
Here, surely, was an opening, an opportunity, for the self-assertion, the self-expression, which he so ardently desired!
Where should he go, now that the time had come for him to step out of the procession, but into Paradise, to Judith and to Uncle Bond, to stand beside them, at their window, in the old inn, at the corner of the market-place, the old inn, on the signboard of which was written in letters of gold "Content"?
If he must seek a rural retreat, an asylum, a city of refuge, what better retreat could he have than Judith's and Uncle Bond's oasis, in Paradise, where no strangers ever came?
In this matter, at any rate, he could assert himself.
In this matter, at any rate, he would have his own way.
Swinging round from the windows, he fronted the Duke, flushed with excitement wholly defiant.