The sound of the door startled her. Joan leaped to her feet and stood, shaking violently, by the table, one hand clutching at the edge of it in terror.
In that tongue-tied minute, if he had but known, with his fingers clenched in his hair and his face scarlet, he was like that turbulent boy who such a little while ago had crashed into his life with a sob.
Joan's agonized eyes, wet with tears, brought home to him the need of a steady head … and responsibility. Yes, he must keep his two feet solidly on the ground and face a gigantic responsibility.
"Don't cry, dear, please!" he said gently. "It's just one of the things that can't be helped. Don told me. He overheard."
Her low cry hurt—viciously. And she came flying wildly across the room to his arms, sobbing out her grief and remorse.
"Oh, Kenny, Kenny." she sobbed. "I—want—you—both."
His shaking arms sheltered her. A heart-broken child! He must remember that. And, as Don said, he could have been her father.
"Happiness with the least unhappiness to others, girleen," he reminded with his cheek against her hair. "Remember?"
"Yes," she choked.
"You must go to Brian. Any foolish notion of sacrifice now will only tangle the lives of all of us."