Vexed with these unbidden and unwelcome thoughts, he got up and walked
about his chamber restlessly. "Guida--poor Guida!" he said to himself
many times. He was angry, disgusted that those shameful, irresponsible
thoughts should have come to him. He would atone for all that--and more
--when he was Prince and she Princess d'Avranche. But, nevertheless,
he was ill at ease with himself. Guida was off there alone in Jersey--
alone. Now, all at once, another possibility flashed into his mind.
Suppose, why, suppose--thoughtless scoundrel that he had been--suppose
that there might come another than himself and Guida to bear his name!
And she there alone, her marriage still kept secret--the danger of it to
her good name. But she had said nothing in her letters, hinted nothing.
No, in none had there been the most distant suggestion. Then and there
he got them, one and all, and read every word, every line, all through to
the end. No; there was not one hint. Of course it could not be so; she
would have--but no, she might not have! Guida was unlike anybody else.

He read on and on again. And now, somehow, he thought he caught in one
of the letters a new ring, a pensive gravity, a deeper tension, which
were like ciphers or signals to tell him of some change in her. For a
moment he was shaken. Manhood, human sympathy, surged up in him. The
flush of a new sensation ran through his veins like fire. The first
instinct of fatherhood came to him, a thrilling, uplifting feeling. But
as suddenly there shot through his mind a thought which brought him to
his feet with a spring.

But suppose--suppose that it was so--suppose that through Guida the
further succession might presently be made sure, and suppose he went to
the Prince and told him all; that might win his favour for her; and the
rest would be easy. That was it, as clear as day. Meanwhile he would
hold his peace, and abide the propitious hour.