“Your father,” said Thorne inaudibly. “He’s dead.”
She cried: “Oh!” in a small helpless voice; and then she grew quiet.
“I’m dreadfully sorry to have to greet you with such news,” said Thorne in the silence. “We’d anticipated... And I realize how awkward it must be for you. After all, it’s quite as if you had never known him at all.
Love for a parent, I’m afraid, lies in direct ratio to the degree of childhood association. Without any association at all...”
“It’s a shock, of course,” Alice said in a muffled voice. “And yet, as you say, he was a stranger to me, a mere name. As I wrote you, I was only a toddler when mother got her divorce and took me off to England. I don’t remember father at all. And I’ve not seen him since, or heard from him.”
“Yes,” muttered the attorney.
“I might have learned more about father if mother hadn’t died when I was six; but she did, and my people — her people — in England... Uncle John died last fall. He was the last one. And then I was left all alone. When your letter came I was — I was so glad, Mr. Thorne. I didn’t feel lonely any more. I was really happy for the first time in years. And now—” She broke off to stare out the window.
Dr. Reinach swiveled his massive head and smiled benignly. “But you’re not alone, my dear. There’s my unworthy self, and your Aunt Sarah, and Milly — Milly’s my wife, Alice; naturally you wouldn’t know anything about her — and there’s even a husky young fellow named Keith who works about the place — bright lad who’s come down in the world.” He chuckled. “So you see there won’t be a dearth of companionship for you.”
“Thank you, Uncle Herbert,” she murmured. “I’m sure you’re all terribly kind. Mr. Thorne, how did father... When you replied to my letter you wrote me he was ill, but—”
“He fell into a coma unexpectedly nine days ago. You hadn’t left England yet and I cabled you at your antique-shop address. But somehow it missed you.”