The King bounded down the steps and smacked Provost Wayne on the back.

“Before the stars were made,” he cried, “we were made for each other. It is too beautiful. Think of the valiant independence of Pump Street. That is the real thing. It is the deification of the ludicrous.”

The kneeling figure sprang to his feet with a fierce stagger.

“Ludicrous!” he cried, with a fiery face.

“Oh, come, come,” said the King, impatiently. “You needn’t keep it up with me. The augurs must wink sometimes from sheer fatigue of the eyelids. Let us enjoy this for half an hour, not as actors, but as dramatic critics. Isn’t it a joke?”

Adam Wayne looked down like a boy, and answered in a constrained voice:

“I do not understand your Majesty. I cannot believe that while I fight for your royal charter your Majesty deserts me for these dogs of the gold hunt.”

“Oh, damn your...But what’s this? What the devil’s this?”

The King stared into the young Provost’s face, and in the twilight of the room began to see that his face was quite white, and his lip shaking.

“What in God’s name is the matter?” cried Auberon, holding his wrist.

Wayne flung back his face, and the tears were shining on it.

“I am only a boy,” he said, “but it’s true. I would paint the Red Lion on my shield if I had only my blood.”

King Auberon dropped the hand and stood without stirring, thunderstruck.

“My God in Heaven!” he said; “is it possible that there is within the four seas of Britain a man who takes Notting Hill seriously?”

“And my God in Heaven!” said Wayne passionately; “is it possible that there is within the four seas of Britain a man who does not take it seriously?”

The King said nothing, but merely went back up the steps of the dais like a man dazed. He fell back in his chair again and kicked his heels.

“If this sort of thing is to go on,” he said weakly, “I shall begin to doubt the superiority of art to life. In Heaven’s name, do not play with me. Do you really mean that you are...God help me!...a Notting Hill patriot...that you are...”

Wayne made a violent gesture, and the King soothed him wildly.

“All right...all right...I see you are; but let me take it in. You do really propose to fight these modern improvers with their boards and inspectors and surveyors and all the rest of it...”

“Are they so terrible?” asked Wayne, scornfully.

The King continued to stare at him as if he were a human curiosity.

“And I suppose,” he said, “that you think that the dentists and small tradesmen and maiden ladies who inhabit Notting Hill, will rally with war-hymns to your standard?”

“If they have blood they will,” said the Provost.

“And I suppose,” said the King, with his head back among the cushions, “that it never crossed your mind that...his voice seemed to lose itself luxuriantly...never crossed your mind that any one ever thought that the idea of a Notting Hill idealism was...er...slightly...slightly ridiculous.”

“Of course they think so,” said Wayne. “What was the meaning of mocking the prophets?”

“Where?” asked the King, leaning forward. “Where in Heaven’s name did you get this miraculously inane idea?”

“You have been my tutor, Sire,” said the Provost, “in all that is high and honourable.”

“Eh?” said the King.

“It was your Majesty who first stirred my dim patriotism into flame. Ten years ago, when I was a boy (I am only nineteen), I was playing on the slope of Pump Street, with a wooden sword and a paper helmet, dreaming of great wars. In an angry trance I struck out with my sword and stood petrified, for I saw that I had struck you, Sire, my King, as you wandered in a noble secrecy, watching over your people’s welfare. But I need have had no fear. Then was I taught to understand kingliness. You neither shrank nor frowned. You summoned no guards. You invoked no punishments. But in august and burning words, which are written in my soul, never to be erased, you told me ever to turn my sword against the enemies of my inviolate city. Like a priest pointing to the altar, you pointed to the hill of Notting. ‘ So long,’ you said, ‘ as you are ready to die for the sacred mountain, even if it were ringed with all the armies of Bayswater.’ I have not forgotten the words, and I have reason now to remember them, for the hour is come and the crown of your prophecy. The sacred hill is ringed with the armies of Bayswater, and I am ready to die.”

The King was lying back in his chair, a kind of wreck.

“O Lord, Lord, Lord,” he murmured, “what a life! what a life! All my work! I seem to have done it all. So you’re the red-haired boy that hit me in the waistcoat. What have I done? God, what have I done? I thought I would have a joke, and I have created a passion. I tried, to compose a burlesque, and it seems to be turning halfway through into an epic. What is to be done with such a world? In the Lord’s name, wasn’t the joke broad and bold enough? I abandoned my subtle humour to amuse you, and I seem to have brought tears to your eyes. What’s to be done with people when you write a pantomime for them...call the sausages classic festoons, and the policeman cut in two a tragedy of public duty? But why am I talking? Why am I asking questions of a nice young gentleman who is totally mad? What is the good of it? What is the good of anything? O Lord, O Lord!”

Suddenly he pulled himself upright.

“Don’t you really think the sacred Notting Hill at all absurd?”

“Absurd?” asked Wayne, blankly. “Why should I?”

The King stared back equally blankly.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Notting Hill,” said the Provost, simply, “is a rise or high ground of the common earth, on which men have built houses to live, in which they are born, fall in love, pray, marry, and die. Why should I think it absurd?”

The King smiled.

“Because, my Leonidas...” he began, then suddenly, he knew not how, found his mind was a total blank. After all, why was it absurd? Why was it absurd? He felt as if the floor of his mind had given way. He felt as all men feel when their first principles are hit hard with a question. Barker always felt so when the King said, “Why trouble about politics?”

The King’s thoughts were in a kind of rout; he could not collect them.

“It is generally felt to be a little funny,” he said, vaguely.

“I suppose,” said Adam, turning on him with a fierce suddenness, “I suppose you fancy crucifixion was a serious affair?”

“Well, I...” began Auberon, “I admit I have generally thought it had its graver side.”

“Then you are wrong,” said Wayne, with incredible violence. “Crucifixion is comic. It is exquisitely diverting. It was an absurd and obscene kind of impaling reserved for people who were made to be laughed at...for slaves and provincials...for dentists and small tradesmen, as you would say. I have seen the grotesque gallows-shape, which the little Roman gutter-boys scribbled on walls as a vulgar joke, blazing on the pinnacles of the temples of the world. And shall I turn back?”

The King made no answer.

Adam went on, his voice ringing in the roof.

“This laughter with which men tyrannize is not the great power you think it. Peter was crucified, and crucified head downwards. What could be funnier than the idea of a respectable old Apostle upside down? What could be more in the style of your modern humour? But what was the good of it? Upside down or right side up, Peter was Peter to mankind. Upside down he still hangs over Europe, and millions move and breathe only in the life of his church.”

King Auberon got up absently.

“There is something in what you say,” he said. “You seem to have been thinking, young man.”

“Only feeling, sire,” answered the Provost. “I was born, like other men, in a spot of the earth which I loved because I had played boys’ games there, and fallen in love, and talked with my friends through nights that were nights of the gods. And I feel the riddle. These little gardens where we told our loves. These streets where we brought out our dead. Why should they be commonplace? Why should they be absurd? Why should it be grotesque to say that a pillar-box is poetic when for a year I could not see a red pillar-box against the yellow evening in a certain street without being wracked with something of which God keeps the secret, but which is stronger than sorrow or joy? Why should any one be able to raise a laugh by saying ‘the Cause of Notting Hill’?...Notting Hill where thousands of immortal spirits blaze with alternate hope and fear.”