On that memorable night, the King had driven alone, out of London, late at night, just as he was driving now, at the end of a fortnight's leave, which he had spent incognito, in town. Soon after he had run through the fringe of the outer suburbs, which he was even then entering, with four hundred odd miles of road between him and the Naval Base in Scotland, where he was due to rejoin his ship, and with barely time to make them good, the car he was driving had developed engine trouble. A few minutes of frenzied tinkering had set the car going again, but the engine had only served to carry him well clear of the town, out into the sleeping countryside, when it had failed, once more, this time completely, and he had found himself stranded, at the side of the lonely, deserted, country road, the victim of a permanent breakdown. The King smiled to himself, now, as he recalled his reckless, humorous appreciation of that situation. In those days, "a sailor, not a Prince," he had had a light heart. Nothing had been able to disturb his equanimity for long. Abandoning the broken down car, almost at once, at the side of the road, he had set out, adventurously, on foot, to look for succour. The night had been, then, as now, cool, fragrant, and moonlit. Soon a narrow, winding, wooded lane, on the left of the road, had attracted him. Turning down this lane, he had followed its twisting, tree-shadowed course, for over a mile or more, until, suddenly, he had come upon the small lodge, and open carriage gate, of an isolated country house, which stood, a little back from the road, surrounded by tall trees. The short, moonlit drive, where the rhododendron bushes and the laburnum trees were in full blossom, had led him to the front of the silent, darkened house. The King remembered vividly the odd sense of impending romance, the little thrill of excitement, and of expectancy, with which he had rung the front door bell. A short pause had ensued, a period of waiting. And then he had heard a movement on his right, and he had turned, and he had seen Judith--seen Judith, for the first time. She had slipped through the open window door, on his right, on to the verandah, which ran all round the shadowy house, and she had stood there, close beside him, tall and slender, surrounded by the ghostly white blossoms of the clematis creeper, which covered the verandah pillars and rail--Judith with her cheeks delicately flushed, her deep, dark, mysterious eyes aglow, and her wealth of jet black hair knotted loosely at her neck, Judith clad in a Japanese kimono of gorgeous colours, from under which peeped little wisps of spotless white linen, and filmy lace.