Uncle Bond entered the room carrying a tray which was loaded with silver, and cutlery, glasses and plates, and the longnecked bottle which he had promised. He shot a shrewd glance at the King, as he crossed the room to the luncheon table; but he set down his tray, on the table, without speaking.
For a moment, the King hesitated. Then he sprang up, impulsively, to his feet, and advanced to the table. Holding out the open book, which he had retained in his left hand, towards Uncle Bond, he tapped it with his right forefinger.
"You know who I am, Uncle Bond?" he challenged.
Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly.
"I do," he acknowledged. "Get the cork out of that bottle, my boy. I've got to carve the chicken."
CHAPTER XII
climax is always a difficult business to handle," Uncle Bond continued, sitting down at the table and beginning his attack on the cold chicken. "It is easy enough to work up to. 'Cynthia' never has any trouble in getting in the necessary punch at the end of her instalments. But to carry on, after the punch, to get the next instalment going—that is a very different affair. In nine cases out of ten, that gives even 'Cynthia' herself a lot of trouble. My dear boy, put down that admirable volume—it is in your left hand!—and, I repeat myself, get the cork out of that bottle! I know you are quite unconscious of the fact, but your attitude, at the moment, is most distressingly wooden."
The King came to himself with a start.