Mechanically, the King crossed the room to the luncheon table.
The table was most attractively arranged. No doubt Judith herself had seen to Uncle Bond's meal, before she had left the house, with the Imps, for the hayfields. A bowl of Uncle Bond's favourite roses, in the centre of the table, seemed to speak of Judith's thoughtfulness, and taste. No servant would have laid the table quite like this.
Beyond pulling the table out into the room, nearer to the windows, and placing a couple of chairs in position beside it, there was really nothing that he could do in preparation for the meal, pending Uncle Bond's return with the additional knives and forks, and plates which would be necessary.
A minute or two sufficed for this readjustment of the furniture.
Then the King turned to the windows, attracted by the sunlight, and the fresh air.
How easily, and naturally things—happened—here in Paradise!
Uncle Bond had accepted his unprecedentedly early, his almost immediate return, without question, or comment.
Uncle Bond, and Judith, always accepted him like that, of course.
But, today, it seemed strange!
The scene which he had visualized between Uncle Bond and himself had not opened like this at all. He had meant to astonish Uncle Bond, at the outset, by his disclosure of his real identity. He had looked forward to astonishing Uncle Bond, he realized now, in spite of his nervous tremors, with real enjoyment. It was he, and not Uncle Bond, who was to have dominated this scene. He was like an actor whose big scene had failed. Somehow he had missed his cue.