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Bessie was disappointed in landing at Southampton when she saw no crowd hysterical with desire to worship the King of Boy Comedians.

In fact, no one was awaiting them save Mr. Percival S. F. Clapham, press agent and secretary to the chairman of the Anglo–Jupiter Film Distributing Corporation, which acted as missionary in introducing the Terrytaits to Britain.

Mr. Clapham greeted Bessie and Terry in what he considered American: “Pleased to meet you! At your service, folks, as long as you’re here. ”

“Where’s the crowd?” demanded Bessie.

“They, uh—Southampton is a bit indifferent to Americans, you might say. ”

Bessie and Clapham looked at each other with no great affection. The international brotherhood was not working out; the hands across the sea were growing cold; and when the three of them were settled in a railway compartment, Bessie demanded crisply:

“Terry and I can’t waste a lot of time. I don’t want to hustle you, but have you fixed it up yet for Terry to meet this kid king and the quince?”

“The QUINCE?”

“Good heavens! The queen! Sidonie!”

“But—the QUINCE! Really! Oh, I see! The queen! Of course. I see. No, I’m sorry; not quite arranged yet. ”

“They’ve arrived?”

“Oh, yes, quite. Splendid reception. The young king the darling of London. ”

“Well, all right; then Terry and I can go right up and call on ’em. I expect they’ve seen a lot of his pictures. If you haven’t made a date for us, I guess we’d better just send in our cards. Or had we better phone? Where they staying?”

“They’re at the Picardie Hotel, because of being in mourning. This is an unofficial visit. And really, my dear lady, it would be quite impossible for you even to try to call on His Young Majesty and Queen Sidonie! It simply isn’t done, d’you see? It isn’t DONE! You must make application to your ambassador, who will present the request to the British foreign office, who will communicate with the Slovarian foreign office, who will determine whether or not they care to submit the request to Queen Sidonie’s secretary, who may care to bring the matter to Her Majesty’s attention, at which time—”

“At which time,” remarked Mrs. T. Benescoten Tait, “hell will have frozen over a second time. Now listen! I’m not much up on meeting queens, but I guess I’m about as chummy with the royalty as you are! Now listen—”

Mr. Clapham’s native ruddiness paled as he heard the subversive, the almost sacrilegious plans of Bessie Tait.

“My dear madame, we are all of us eager to help you,” he implored, “but really, you know, a king is a king!”

She looked at Terry. “You bet,” she observed. “And a king’s mother is a queen. You bet!”

Which profound and mysterious statement puzzled Mr. Clapham until the train drew in at Waterloo.

There were five reporters and a group of thirty or forty admirers, very juvenile, to greet them. The most respectable Mr. Turner, chairman of the Anglo–Jupiter Corporation and boss of Mr. Clapham, met them with his car.

“Shall we go right to the Picardie, or kind of parade through London first?” demanded Bessie.

“Oh! The Picardie!”

“Why, sure! That’s where King Maximilian and his ma are staying, isn’t it? It’s the swellest hotel in town, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, quite!” Mr. Turner looked agitated, as he fretted: “But I say! A lady traveling alone, with a boy, couldn’t go to the Picardie! People might think it a bit fast! I’ve taken a suite for you at Garborough’s Hotel—most respectable family hotel. ”

“When was it built?”

“Built? Built? When was it built? Good heavens, I don’t know, madame. I should suppose about 1840. ”

“Well, that’s all I want to know. But go ahead. ”

Mr. Turner’s car left the station to a slight rustle of cheering from Terry’s youthful admirers and to earnest questions from the reporters as to how many cocktails American boys of ten usually consume before dinner. But after that, there was no sign that London knew it was entertaining another king.

Fog packed in about them. The sooty house fronts disappeared in saffron-gray. The roar of Trafalgar Square seemed louder, more menacing, than Los Angeles or even New York. Bessie thrust out her hand with a gesture of timid affection which she rarely used toward that rare and golden goose, Terry.