And then—he remembered Uncle Bond.
Uncle Bond had risen to his feet, and had thrown a white cloth over the luncheon table. He crossed the room now to his writing table, sat down deliberately, and picked up his pencil.
"You are going to join Judith, in the garden, my boy?" he remarked. "That is right. Judith will be surprised—and glad—to see you. I am about to revert to 'Cynthia.' I have only one thing more to say to you—now. Thomas Carlyle! Do not forget in Judith's, or in your own excitement, that they will—'cut the rope!' That is certain. You cannot afford to forget that fact, in your dealings with any of us, my boy—least of all can you afford to forget it, in your dealings with Judith."
The little man began to write.
The King opened his lips to speak; thought better of it, and closed them again; and then—hurried out of the room.
CHAPTER XIII
t was an urgent, blind necessity that was laid upon him, rather than any action of his own will, which had hurried the King out of Uncle Bond's writing room. None the less, now, as he descended the staircase in the silent house, crossed the hall, and so passed out into the bright afternoon sunshine in the garden, he was not altogether unconscious of the motives which were driving him, in this strange way, to Judith. He wanted to see Judith alone. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to explain things to her. And, most of all, he wanted Judith to explain—things which only she could explain—to him—
A few minutes of rapid walking led him across the lawn, in amongst the trees, at the far end of the garden. A narrow path ran, through the trees, to the little clearing beyond, in which the summer house stood. He followed this path.