Joan looked into his face in speechless inquiry.
“Yes,” he answered, “your father is dead.”
Then he sat there in a silence which may have been intensely stupid or very wise. For silence is usually cleverer than speech, and always more interesting. Joan was dry-eyed. Well may the children of the selfish arise and bless their parents for (albeit unwittingly) alleviating one of the necessary sorrows of life.
After a silence, Major White told Joan how the calamity had occurred, in a curt military way, as of one who had rubbed shoulders with death before, who had gone out, moreover, to meet him with a quiet mind, and had told others of the dealings of the destroyer. For Major White was deemed a lucky man by his comrades, who had a habit of giving him messages for their friends before they went into the field. Perhaps, moreover, the major was of the opinion of those ancient writers who seemed to deem it more important to consider how a man lives than how he dies.
“It was some heart trouble,” he concluded, “brought on by worry or sudden excitement.”
“The Malgamite,” answered Joan. “It has always been a source of uneasiness to him. He never quite understood it.”
“No,” answered the major, very deliberately, “he never quite understood it.” And he looked out of the window with a thoughtful noncommitting face.
“Neither do I—understand it,” said Joan, doubtfully.
And the major looked suddenly dense. He had, as usual, no explanation to offer.
“Was father deceived by some one?” Joan asked, after a pause. “One hears such strange rumours about the Malgamite Fund. I suppose father was deceived?”