This situation reminded me of the scene from The Fountainhead where Keating literally killed Heyer with his callous words. There is a certain respect and regard for someone's dignity in their last moments which is appropriate and, at that time, has a higher value than the type brutal honesty that could trigger a stroke, heart attack and actually cause the death of another human being. Maybe it was a little white lie Barbara told, but in the context of the situation, she was certainly right to tell her mother what she thought she wanted to hear.
* * * * * * * * *
“Get out!” said Keating, raising his voice, not to hear that sound. “Get out of the firm!” what do you want to stay for? You’re no good. You’ve never been any good.”
The yellow face at the edge of the table opened its mouth and made a wet, gurgling sound like a moan.
Keating sat easily, leaning forward, his knees spread apart, one elbow resting on his knee, the hand hanging down, swinging the letter.
“I…” Heyer choked “I…”
“Shut up! You’ve got nothing to say, except yes or no. Think fast now. I’m not here to argue with you.”
Heyer stopped trembling. A shadow cut diagonally across his face. Keating saw one eye that did not blink, and half a mouth open, the darkness flowing in through the hole, into the face, as if it were drowning.
“Answer me!” Keating screamed, frightened suddenly, “Why don’t you answer me?”
The half-face swayed and he saw the head lurch forward; it fell down on the table, and went on, and rolled to the floor, as if cut off; two of the cups fell after it, cracking softly to pieces on the carpet. The first thing Keating felt was relief to see that the body had followed the head and lay crumpled in a heap on the floor, intact. There had been no sound; only the muffled, musical bursting of porcelain.
He’ll be furious, thought Keating, looking down at the cups. He had jumped to his feet, he was kneeling, gathering the pieces pointlessly; he saws that they were broken beyond repair. He knew he was thinking also, at the same time, that it had come, that second stroke they had been expecting, and that he would have to do something about it in a moment, but that it was alright, because Heyer would have to retire now.
Then he moved on his knees closer to Heyer’s body. He wondered why he did not want to touch it. “Mr. Heyer,” he called. His voice was soft, almost respectful. He lifted Heyer’s head cautiously. He let it drop. He heard no sound of its falling. He heard the hiccough in his own throat. Heyer was dead.
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