How? Why?
It was all an inexplicable mystery to him.
Where was the white line Judith had always drawn round herself? Where was the barrier of physical reserve she had always maintained inviolable between them? From the first moment of his arrival, he realized now, in some odd way, almost in spite of herself as it were, she had been—alluring!
A strange, new Judith!
A sudden, queer feeling of resentment stirred within the King.
He had been so sure of Judith!
She had placed him in an impossible, an intolerable position.
No. That was unfair, unjust. Judith was not to blame. Judith did not know—how could she know?—the peculiar difficulties, the inexorable limitations, imposed upon him by his Royal rank. She did not know—how could she know?—that friendship was all he could accept from, all he could offer, to, any woman. To Judith, he was merely a young naval officer, whose frequent visits, whose unmistakable delight in her society, could have only one meaning.
He alone was to blame. By his own act, by his own deliberate concealment of his real identity, he had made this crisis inevitable from the first.
What attitude was he to adopt towards Judith now? Could he ignore what had happened? Could he hope that Judith would allow him to ignore what had happened? Or had the time come when he must reveal his real identity to Judith at last? Would she believe him? If she believed him, would she be able to forgive his deception? And, even if she forgave him, would not the shadow thrown by his Royal rank irretrievably injure his intimacy with her, with the Imps, and with Uncle Bond? All the spontaneity, the ease, and the naturalness of their relationship would be at an end.