That same evening I was sitting in the library of the Salmagundi Club, when a well-known artist addressed me.
"You knew S——, didn't you?" he said.
"Yes; what of it?"
"You knew he was dead, didn't you?"
"What!" I said.
"Yes, he died of fever, this morning."
I looked at him without speaking for a moment.
"Too bad," he said. "A clever boy, Louis. Awfully clever. I feel sorry for his father."
It did not take long to verify his statement. His name was in the perfunctory death lists of the papers the next morning. No other notice of any sort. Only a half-dozen seemed to know that he had ever lived.
And yet it seemed to me that a great tragedy had happened—he was so ambitious, so full of plans. His dreams were so near fulfillment.