"Anything more coming in?" he enquired. "Not at the moment, I think, sir. The Government Circulations are all unusually late this morning, sir," the tall young man replied, approaching the table, and picking up the "Out" boxes for removal to the secretaries' room. The King was filling his pipe now. He felt that he had earned a smoke. "Bought any cars, lately, Blunt?" he enquired, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. He had suddenly realized that this was Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage in Lower Grosvenor Place, and the nominal purchaser of the car housed there. Geoffrey Blunt laughed, and then blushed, as he became conscious of the liberty into which the King had betrayed him. "We must organize one of our little incognito excursions, in the near future, Blunt, I think," the King murmured, looking out through the tall windows, on his left, at the sunny, morning glory of the garden. "We will run out into the country." At the moment, his thoughts were in Paradise. Judith and the Imps, in all probability, would be in the hayfields-- "You must be ready for a holiday, sir," Geoffrey Blunt ventured to remark. "You took us all by surprise, this morning, sir. After yesterday, we did not expect to see you, so early, this morning, sir." "No. And that reminds me of something I wanted to say," the King replied, looking round from the windows, and speaking with a sudden, marked change of manner. "I can see by the papers which you had waiting for me, this morning, that you people have all been keeping hard at it during the last day or two. I appreciate that. Tell your colleagues, in the next room, that I expressed my appreciation. That is all now. Let me see today's Circulations, when they do arrive. I do not want to be faced with an accumulation of papers, like this morning's, again." Flushing with pleasure at this praise, Geoffrey Blunt bowed, and withdrew, taking the "Out" boxes with him. The King smiled to himself as he lit his pipe. "But who is there to praise me?" he muttered. Leaning back in his chair, for a moment or two, he gave himself up to the luxury of the true smoker's idleness. But had there not been something that he had meant to do, in any interval of rest, like this, which might occur during the morning? The morocco bound memorandum tablet, which he produced from his waistcoat pocket, answered the question-- "Write to Betty." "Send message to Lancaster." It was too late to send any message to Lancaster now. A couple of hours was not sufficient notice to give him of an invitation to lunch. He was not intimate enough with Lancaster to treat him in so offhand a manner. It would be an abuse of his new position, a tactical mistake. The lunch must be arranged for tomorrow. Crossing off his original note, he scribbled another-- Lancaster to lunch tomorrow. See him, personally, this afternoon, or this evening. But he could write to Betty!