But release came after an afternoon spent in playing boats by the edge of the tank at the bottom of the garden. His Majesty the King went to tea, and, for the first time in his memory, the meal revolted him. His nose was very cold, and his cheeks were burning hot. There was a weight about his feet, and he pressed his head several times to make sure that it was not swelling as he sat.
“I feel vevy funny,” said His Majesty the King, rubbing his nose. “Vere’s a buzz-buzz in my head.”
He went to bed quietly. Miss Biddums was out and the bearer undressed him.
The sin of the “’parkle cwown” was forgotten in the acuteness of the discomfort to which he roused after a leaden sleep of some hours, He was thirsty, and the bearer had forgotten to leave the drinking-water. “Miss Biddums! Miss Biddums! I’m so kirsty!”
No answer, Miss Biddums had leave to attend the wedding of a Calcutta schoolmate. His Majesty the King had forgotten that.
“I want a dwink of water!” he cried, but his voice was dried up in his throat. “I want a dwink! Vere is ve glass?”
He sat up in bed and looked round. There was a murmur of voices from the other side of the nursery door. It was better to face the terrible unknown than to choke in the dark. He slipped out of bed, but his feet were strangely wilful, and he reeled once or twice. Then he pushed the door open and staggered—a puffed and purple-faced little figure—into the brilliant light of the dining-room full of pretty ladies.
“I’m vevy hot! I’m vevy uncomfitivle,” moaned His Majesty the King, clinging to the portiére, “and vere’s no water in ve glass, and I’m so kirsty. Give me a dwink of water.”
An apparition in black and white—His Majesty the King could hardly see distinctly—lifted him up to the level of the table, and felt his wrists and forehead. The water came, and he drank deeply, his teeth chattering against the edge of the tumbler. Then every one seemed to go away—every one except the huge man in black and white, who carried him back to his bed; the mother and father following. And the sin of the “’parkle cwown” rushed back and took possession of the terrified soul.
“I’m a fief!” he gasped. “I want to tell Miss Biddums vat I’m a fief. Vere is Miss Biddums?”