A hilarious, crowded, half hour followed. It was a half hour lit up, for the King, by the blended innocence and mischief which shone in the Imps' eyes, a half hour set to music for him by the Imps' gurgling chuckles, and radiant, childish laughter. First came the bathroom, where the Imps splashed and twisted in the bath, their brown, wriggling little bodies as lithe and supple as those of young eels; where Bill, lost in a huge bath towel, demanded assistance in drying all the back places and corners; where Button solemnly lathered his chin, just as Uncle Alfred lathered his chin; where Bill was, for one terrible moment, in imminent peril of his life, as he grabbed at the case of shining razors. Then came the bedroom again, where odd, queer-shaped little garments had to be turned right side out, and buttons and strings had to be fastened, and tied. Innocency, fearlessness, trust, mischief, and laughter were inextricably mingled in it all, with laughter predominating, the radiant laughter of the happy child, ignorant of evil. All this was all as it had always been, and, for that reason, it all made a more poignant appeal, than ever before, this morning, to the King. Breakfast was served, as Judith had promised, out on the sunlit verandah. One glance at Judith, as he approached the breakfast table, assured the King that it was the old Judith with whom he had to deal. Dressed in white, and as fresh and cool as the morning, Judith was already in her place, at the head of the table, hospitably entrenched behind the coffee pot. She looked up at the King, with her customary little nod, and friendly smile. "You slept? You are rested? It was dreamless sleep? Good boy!" she said. And she poured out his coffee. From that moment, they fell, easily and naturally, into their usual routine. Intimate conversation, with the Imps at the table, was out of the question. An occasional glance, a sympathetic smile, was all that could pass between them. The King was well content to have it so. He was pleasantly conscious that the accord between them, which had been so inexplicably broken, for a time, the night before, was completely restored. Their friendship was unimpaired. Nothing else mattered. Looking at Judith, cool, competent, and self-contained, as she was, he found himself almost doubting the actuality of the emotional crisis of the night before. Had that scene in the night nursery been a dream? A mere figment of his own fevered, disordered imagination? The birds whistled, and called cheerily from the sunlit greenness of the garden. The Imps chattered like magpies as they attacked their porridge. It was a merry, informal, delightfully domestic meal. This, it seemed to the King, was his only real life. That other life of his in the palace, guarded, night and day, by the soldiery, and the police, was the illusion, was the dream.