Then he rang his bell, for which, he was well aware, a number of the palace servants would be, already anxiously listening. It was Smith, as the King had been at some pains to arrange, who answered this, the first summons of the official, Royal day. "Breakfast in the garden, in half an hour, Smith," the King ordered. "See about that, at once. Then you can come back, and get my bath ready, and lay out the clothes." Another bath was welcome, and refreshing, after the dust, and the excitement of the motor run. Smith's choice of clothes was a new, grey, lounge suit, of most satisfactory cut, and finish. At the end of the half hour which he had allowed himself, the King left the dressing room, and passed down the private staircase, out into the sunlit garden, with an excellent appetite for his second breakfast. The breakfast table had been placed on one of the lawns, in the green shade thrown by a magnificent sycamore tree. A couple of gorgeously clad footmen were responsible for the service of the meal but they soon withdrew to a discreet distance. The unpretentious domestic life, traditional for so many years, in the palace, had made it comparatively easy for the King to reduce to a minimum the distasteful ceremony which the presence of servants adds to the simplest meal. A few personal letters, extracted by some early rising member of his secretarial staff, from the avalanche of correspondence in the Royal post bags, had been placed, in readiness for the King, on the breakfast table. One of these letters bore the Sandringham postmark, and proved to be from his youngest sister, the Princess Elizabeth, who was still, officially, a school girl. It was a charming letter. With a frank and fearless affection, a spontaneous naïveté, that pleased the King, the young Princess wrote to offer him her congratulations on his Coronation, congratulations which, she confessed, she had been too shy to voice in public, the day before. The letter touched the King. He read it through twice, allowing his eggs and bacon, and coffee, to grow cold, while he did so. There was a note of sincere feeling, of genuine affection, of sisterly pride in him, mingled with anxiety for his welfare, in the letter, which afforded a very agreeable contrast to the subservience of the Family in general, which had so jarred upon him, at the state banquet, the night before. This sister of his seemed likely to grow up into a true woman, a loyal and affectionate woman. She reminded him, in some odd way, of Judith.