“Well, he said you ought to chuck literature and try window-cleaning----” Lovegood’s deep chuckle echoed about the room, and Caroline Baddlesmere reprovingly said: “Noll!” The little man’s face became scarlet; then went white. He raised himself on his little high heels as far as his full rigidity of back and limb and pride would take him, and, tilting his nose in the air: “Puppy!” he snorted, and walked angrily out of the office. Julia went and scolded Noll, who hugged her. Lovegood turned to Caroline Baddlesmere, and the laughter went out of his eyes: “Caroline,” said he, “I have heard rumours of the disaster impending here--Anthony told me only this morning.” “Yes, Eustace. I’ve gone quite out of the fashion--just like yourself. But we must not whimper when the days are black.” “It grieves me,” said the big man sadly.... “You are not a good subject for the boiled potato--the homely bun.” “Nonsense, Eustace; we were all happy enough in the old Paris days--before I made my mark with the book.” Eustace Lovegood’s eyes turned into the past. “Ah, the Paris days!” said he, and fell into reverie.... “That reminds me,” he added after awhile. “Last night, as I supped under the stars at an itinerant barrow, regaling myself on a wondrous baked potato, a wandering musician splitting the air with peevish song in the murk of the London night, like some lost soul from the damned--most dramatic situation--a note of tragedy in the blackness of the world----” His mind wandered off into his thoughts, and he stood for awhile gazing into the night that was gone, forgetful of all that stood about him. “Well, Eustace!” The big man’s consciousness came back to his body with a start and he took up his tale again: “A little woman in seedy clothes, a tattered shadow, flitted out of the other shadows of the lamp-lit night, and touched me on the arm. She wanted money.... It was the husk--the dusty shabby husk--of little Kate Ormsby, whose singing had some vogue a few years ago----” “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: