We met him
face to face on Fifth Avenue, and he bowed to us. We returned the
salute, little dreaming that never again would we see him.
For Shelby sailed on the _Lusitania_.
There must be a hiatus here, too; for no one saw him die. The story runs
that he must have been in his cabin when the awful moment came--that he
was drowned like a rat in a trap. I wonder. And I wonder if he knew in
that agonizing instant that he was doomed? But was it not better to die
than to emerge again from so great a calamity--so historical an
episode--as he had once before emerged, and find himself again
inarticulate? At least there can be some glory for him now; for one
likes to think that, after all, he might have told us how he felt in so
supreme a moment, and linked it, through his delicate art, with his San
Francisco sensations. Could those have been revived, and put upon paper?
Could Shelby ever have made a fine gesture, know himself as we knew him,
and told the truth.
I doubt it. For, looking over his published works tonight, I find only
one or two epigrams worthy of a brief existence. And one of those I am
sure he filched from an English wit, and redressed it for his purposes.
That was the only time he cared for American tailoring.
But poor Shelby! Vicarious, indeed, were all the experiences, save two,
of his shallow days.
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