'WELL,' said Cyril, 'of all the choices! But there's no accounting
for tastes.'

Every one laughed at the idea of the cook's being engaged as queen;
they could not help it.

'I do not advise laughter,' warned the Phoenix, ruffling out his
golden feathers, which were extremely wet. 'And it's not their own
choice. It seems that there is an ancient prophecy of this
copper-coloured tribe that a great queen should some day arise out
of the sea with a white crown on her head, and--and--well, you see!
There's the crown!'

It pointed its claw at cook's cap; and a very dirty cap it was,
because it was the end of the week.

'That's the white crown,' it said; 'at least, it's nearly
white--very white indeed compared to the colour THEY are--and
anyway, it's quite white enough.'

Cyril addressed the cook. 'Look here!' said he, 'these brown
people want you to be their queen. They're only savages, and they
don't know any better. Now would you really like to stay? or, if
you'll promise not to be so jolly aggravating at home, and not to
tell any one a word about to-day, we'll take you back to Camden
Town.'

'No, you don't,' said the cook, in firm, undoubting tones. 'I've
always wanted to be the Queen, God bless her! and I always thought
what a good one I should make; and now I'm going to. IF it's only