Mechanically, the King crossed the room to the luncheon table. The table was most attractively arranged. No doubt Judith herself had seen to Uncle Bond's meal, before she had left the house, with the Imps, for the hayfields. A bowl of Uncle Bond's favourite roses, in the centre of the table, seemed to speak of Judith's thoughtfulness, and taste. No servant would have laid the table quite like this. Beyond pulling the table out into the room, nearer to the windows, and placing a couple of chairs in position beside it, there was really nothing that he could do in preparation for the meal, pending Uncle Bond's return with the additional knives and forks, and plates which would be necessary. A minute or two sufficed for this readjustment of the furniture. Then the King turned to the windows, attracted by the sunlight, and the fresh air. How easily, and naturally things--happened--here in Paradise! Uncle Bond had accepted his unprecedentedly early, his almost immediate return, without question, or comment. Uncle Bond, and Judith, always accepted him like that, of course. But, today, it seemed strange! The scene which he had visualized between Uncle Bond and himself had not opened like this at all. He had meant to astonish Uncle Bond, at the outset, by his disclosure of his real identity. He had looked forward to astonishing Uncle Bond, he realized now, in spite of his nervous tremors, with real enjoyment. It was he, and not Uncle Bond, who was to have dominated this scene. He was like an actor whose big scene had failed. Somehow he had missed his cue. One thing was certain. His announcement, his disclosure, of his real identity must be no longer delayed. Somehow he could not bear to think of accepting Uncle Bond's joyous hospitality, of eating his salt, without first confessing his past deception, and receiving the little man's forgiveness and absolution. It was odd that his conscience should have become suddenly so sensitive in the matter. His feeling was quite irrational, of course-- But how was he to make his announcement? It was not the sort of thing that could be blurted out anyhow. He would have to lead up to it somehow. "I am, or rather I was, until twelve noon, today--the King! Now I am--on strike--taking a holiday!" How wildly absurd it sounded! Such an announcement, however skilfully he led up to it, would carry no conviction with it. Uncle Bond would not, could not be expected to believe him. Somehow, here in Paradise, he hardly believed in it himself! The fact was his dual life, the two distinct parts which he had played for so long, had become too much for him. Hitherto, he had been able to keep the two parts, more or less distinct. Now he was trying to play both parts at once. It was a mental, it was almost a physical, impossibility. "Alfred," "my boy," the sailor who had just been given promotion, the sailor who served the King, never had been, and never could be--the King.