Flinging off his leather coat, his cap, and his goggles, the King tossed them, one after the other, into the car. Then he sauntered round the side of the house, to the front door.
All the doors, and windows in the house stood wide open.
No one appeared to receive him.
For a moment or two the King lingered, irresolutely, on the verandah beside the front door.
What should he do? In all probability, the whole household were at work in the hayfields. Should he go and find them there? No. Judith would be astonished to see him. She might betray her astonishment. In the circumstances it would be as well that his meeting with Judith should have as few eye-witnesses as possible.
But Uncle Bond would be in. Had he not declared that "Cynthia" would be good for five or six thousand words that day? The little man would be upstairs, hard at work, in his big, many-windowed writing room. Dare he break in upon Uncle Bond's jealously guarded literary seclusion? It was a thing which he had never ventured to do. It was a thing which Judith herself rarely cared to do. But, after all, this was an exceptional day, if ever there was an exceptional day! Now that he came to think about it, it would be a good thing if he could see Uncle Bond, in his capacity of "heavy father," before he saw Judith. Strictly speaking was it not to Uncle Bond, as his host, that his announcement of his real identity, and his explanations, and his apologies were first due?
With a sudden flash of determination, in which a semi-humorous, boyish desire to face the music, and get it over, played a large part, the King entered the house.
CHAPTER XI
