A small table, in the far corner of the room, on the right, on which stood a typewriter, an instrument of torture which the little man loathed, and rarely used, a large sofa, placed under, and parallel with, the windows, and another table, on the left, which appeared to be laid for a meal, with two or three uncompromisingly straight backed chairs, completed the furnishing of the room. This was a workshop: a workshop from which all the machinery and tools had been removed. Uncle Bond wrote swiftly. He had a trick of stabbing at the paper in front of him, with his pencil, periodically, which puzzled the King. Ultimately it dawned upon him that this was probably merely Uncle Bond's method of dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and putting in his stops. This supposition appeared to be confirmed, presently, when, with a more energetic stab than usual which marked, no doubt, a final full stop, the little man finished writing. Uncle Bond wore, when at work, a pair of large, tortoiseshell framed spectacles, which gave a grotesque air of gravity to his round, double chinned, clean-shaven face. He turned now in his chair, and looked at the King, for a moment, over the rims of these spectacles. Then he sprang up to his feet, snatched off his spectacles, and darted across the room to the table on the left, which appeared to be laid for a meal. "A whole chicken--cold! A salad. A sweet, indescribable, but glutinous, pink, and iced. We shall manage," the little man crowed, as he uncovered a number of dishes on the table, and peered at their contents. "My dear boy, I am delighted to see you. For the last half hour, I have been thinking about lunch, but I disliked the idea of feeding alone. I am, as you have probably already discovered, by myself in the house. Judith and the Imps are picnicking in the hay fields. The servants are all in the fields. Judith hopes to cut, and cart, the Valley fields today. 'Cynthia' and I have had the house to ourselves all morning. We have achieved wonders. I told you 'Cynthia' would function today, didn't I? She is at the top of her form. We are already level with the time-table, and she is still in play. But we shall need some more knives and forks, a plate or two, and a bottle--a bottle decidedly! A light, sparkling, golden wine. A long necked bottle with the right label. I will go downstairs, and forage. You haven't had lunch, I suppose?" The King smiled, in spite of himself. This was not the reception that he had anticipated. "No. I have not had lunch, Uncle Bond," he admitted. "Good!" the little man chuckled. "You must be hungry. I am. And you look tired. You can pull the table out, and find a couple of chairs, while I am away, if you like. Glasses--and a corkscrew!" He moved, as he spoke, towards the door. But, by the door, he paused. "By the way, Alfred, there is a book on the window sill, beside the sofa, which may interest you," he remarked. Then he darted out of the room--