Instead of
seating himself at his table, where the bound _Post_ for January-March,
1902, awaited his exploration, he laid himself down on his tiny bed.
If he were to die to-night, who would weep for him like that?
The thought had come unbidden to his mind and stuck in his metaphysics
like a burr. Now he remembered that the question was not entirely a new
one. Fifi had once asked him who would be sorry if he died, and had
answered herself by saying that she would. However, Fifi was dead, and
therefore released from her promise.
Yes, Fifi was dead. He would never help her with her algebra again. The
thought filled him with vague, unaccountable regrets. He felt that he
would willingly take twenty minutes a night from the wrecked Schedule to
have her come back, but unfortunately there was no way of arranging that
now. He remembered the night he had sent Fifi out of the dining-room for
coughing, and the remembrance made him distinctly uncomfortable. He
rather wished that he had told Fifi he was sorry about that, but it was
too late now. Still he had told her that he was her friend; he was glad
to remember that.
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