e other nurses though, to be got. Somewhere
one could be found, no doubt, who'd take a broader view.

Given a fair field, Rose might have won a victory here. But, as Portia
had said once, the pattern was cut differently. There was a sudden alarm
one night, when her little namesake was found strangling with the croup.
There were seven terrifying hours--almost unendurable hours, while the
young life swung and balanced over the ultimate abyss. The heroine of
those hours was Mrs. Ruston. It was her watchfulness that had been
accessible to the first alarm--her instant doing of the one right thing
that stemmed the first onrush. That the child lived was clearly
creditable to her.

Rose made another effort even after that, though she knew she was beaten
in advance. She waited until the storm had subsided, until the old calm
routine was reestablished. Then, once more, she asked for her chance.

But Rodney exploded before she got the words fairly out of her mouth.

"No," he shouted, "I won't consider it! She's saved that baby's life.
Another woman might have, but it's more likely not. You'll have to find
some way of satisfying your whims that won't jeopardize those babies'
lives. After that night--good God, Rose, have you forgotten that
night?--I'm going to play it safe."

Rose paled a little and sat ivory still in her chair. There were no
miracles any more. The great dam was swept away.

CHAPTER XV

THE ONLY REMEDY

The sudden flaw of passion that had troubled the waters of Rodney's
soul, subsided, spent itself in mutterings, explanations, tending to
become at last rather apologetic. He said he didn't know why her request
had got him like that. It had seemed to him for a moment as if she
didn't realize what the children's lives meant to them--almost as if she
didn't love them. He knew that was absurd, of course.

Her own rather monstrous comments on these observations had luckily
remained unspoken. What if she did lose a child as a result of her
effort to care for it herself? She could bear more children. And what
chance had she to love them? Where was the soil for love to take root
in, unless she took care of them herself? These weren't really thoughts
of hers--just a sort of crooked reflection of what he was saying off the
surface of a mind terribly preoccupied with something else.

She was in the grip of an appalling realization. This moment--this
actually present moment that was going to last only until sh