Major White was not a talkative man, and towards Joan in particular his attitude was one of silent wonder. In preference to talking to her, he preferred to stand a little way off and look at her. And if, at these moments, the keen observer could detect any glimmer of expression on his face, that glimmer seemed to express abject abasement before a creation that could produce anything so puzzling, so interesting, so absolutely beautiful—as Joan.
Cornish, seeing White engaged in his favourite pastime, took him by the arm and led him to the window.
“Read that,” he said, “and then burn it.”
“Of course,” Joan was saying to Marguerite, as he joined them, “there are, as your father says, two sides to the question. If papa and Tony and Major White withdraw their names and abandon the poor malgamiters now, there will be no help for the miserable wretches. They will all drift back to the cheaper and more poisonous way of making malgamite. And such a thing would be a blot upon our civilization—wouldn't it, Tony?”
Marguerite nodded an airy acquiescence. She was watching Major White—that great strategist—tear up Mrs. Vansittart's letter and throw it into the fire, with a deliberate non-concealment which was perhaps superior to any subterfuge. The major joined the group.
“That is the view that I take of it,” answered Tony.
“And what do you say?” asked Joan, turning upon the major.
“I? Oh, nothing!” replied that soldier, with perfect truthfulness.
“Then what are you going to do?” asked Joan, who was practical, and, like many practical people, rather given to hasty action.
“We are going to stick to the malgamiters,” replied Tony, quietly.