"You're young, Ledwith—if you cared to help yourself——"
"Yes, if I cared—if I cared. In this book they all seem to care; youth and happiness care; sorrow and years still care. Listen to this:
"'You who look forward through the shining tears
Of April's showers
Into the sunrise of the coming years
Golden with unborn flowers—
I who look backward where the sunset lowers
Counting November's hours!'
"But—I don't care. I care no longer, Quarren."
"That's losing your grip."
He raised his ashy visage: "I'm trying to let go.... But it's slow—very slow—with a little pleasure—hell's own pleasure—" He turned his shoulder, fished something out of his pocket, and pulling back his cuff, bent over. After a few moments he turned around, calmly:
"You've seen that on the stage I fancy."
"Otherwise, also."
"Quite likely. I've known a pretty woman—" He ended with a weary gesture and dropped his head between his hands.
"Quarren," he said, "there's only one hurt left in it all. I have two little children."