It seemed as if singing was a different matter.
"Yes," I repeated, "sing. You must throw yourself into that. It will be the best of all tonics."
"Have I not told you that I should never sing again?"
"Perhaps you have," I replied; "but I don't remember. And even if you have, as you yourself have just said, you are now wiser, less morbid."
"True!" he murmured. "Yes, I must sing. They want me at Chicago. I will go, and while there I will spread abroad the fame of Carl Foster."
He smiled gaily, and then his face became meditative and sad.
"My artistic career has never been far away from tragedy," he said at length. "It was founded on a tragedy, and not long ago I thought it would end in one."
I waited in silence, knowing that if he wished to tell me any private history, he would begin of his own accord.
"You are listening, Carl?"
I nodded. It was growing dusk.