What would happen if Cass
should die? Who would take care of her and the children, helpless and
penniless, with only Papa Claude and his visions to stand between them
and the world? A great wave of sympathy rushed over him for the girl
kneeling there with her face buried in the bed-clothes. She had asked so
little of life--just a few good times to offset the drudgery, just an
outlet for the ocean of love that was dammed up in her small body. Love
was the only thing she cared about; it was the only thing that mattered
in life. Cass never understood her, but Quin understood her. He was like
that himself. The blood was pounding through his veins too, a terrible
urgence was impelling him toward her. Why shouldn't they throw discretion
to the winds and answer the call?
Then his mind did a curious thing. It brought up out of the sub-conscious
a question that Eleanor Bartlett had once asked him: "Do you think a
person has a right to go ahead and do what he wants, regardless of
consequences?" He saw her face, moonlit and earnest, turned up to his,
and he heard himself answering her: "That depends on whether he wants the
right thing."
Rose stirred, and he withdrew his hand and stood up.
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