“Kate Ormsby?—who was engaged to poor drunken Andrew Blotte?” she asked hoarsely.
“Ah, but remember, Caroline, he did not drink when he was engaged to Kate Ormsby. Blotte was the most brilliant in promise of us all.... All that began when Paul Pangbutt took her away from him——”
“But—why didn’t you send her to me?”
Caroline suddenly flushed embarrassedly, and added with a dry laugh:
“Ah—I forgot.”
She traced her confusion with her fingers on the palm of her slender hand.
Lovegood went on dreamily:
“Since Paul Pangbutt threw her over in Paris, like one of his discarded painting-rags, she has steadily gone down hill.... She wanted to know if I had seen Paul since he returned from his tour of the European courts and had set up his big studio in Kensington.” He shrugged his huge shoulders. “But I told her that the great did not much care about associating with me—that most of those that once knew my Christian name have forgotten even my surname.”
Caroline nodded:
“Kate Ormsby never had imagination,” said she—“she does not realize how greatness crowds out the memory.”