Paul’s family did not share the reticence of his late host. He was catechised at long length, and would assuredly have been punished but for father’s intervention. Father, who refused to be anxious or excited when his younger son played the prodigal, seemed rather to sympathise with his wandering propensities. "As if anything could happen to the boy, with that great dog always at his heels," he said scornfully, when, before lunch, we had all suggested the manifold disasters that might have befallen Paul. "It’s no use expecting a boy to stay in the grounds for ever. Let him go out and tramp the country occasionally, and when he comes back take no notice, and he’ll soon tire of it. Paul likes to make a sensation. It would be quite flat and tame if we were none of us the least concerned as to where he has been. You may be sure he’ll fall on his feet whatever way he goes—he’s that sort." All very well for father, who was the least inquisitive man on earth, but Fiammetta and I were bursting with curiosity, and I noticed mother hovered near during Paul’s recital of his adventures. Just at bed-time he discovered that he had left his "chuncheon" behind. He remembered that it "stuck into him rather" as he sat talking to the man who wrote plays just before lunch, and he had slipped it out of the string round his waist and laid it at the back of his chair. "You’ll never see it again," said Fiammetta. "Somebody’s sure to throw it away." Paul looked sad. Then his face brightened—"I don’t think so," he said. "Nothing’s ever throwed away out of that room. "How do you know?" asked mother. "He hasn’t got a missus," Paul said, "anybody could see that. He does _exactly_ what he likes. No one tidies his things. He hasn’t got one." "Perhaps he’ll throw it away himself," Fiammetta persisted. "I don’t believe it," cried Paul, on the verge of tears. "He wouldn’t do such a thing. He’s not that kind of person." "You’ll never see that old truncheon again," Fiammetta remarked with a superior finality that drove Paul to make reprisals. He stoutly maintained his belief in his friend, but he was plainly anxious, for he knew that he could never find his way again to that other county. He had wandered there, haphazard, across fields, and never noticed the roads on the return journey—he was so busy talking to his friend. He added a petition to his prayers that the beloved "chuncheon" might be restored to him, and "so," as Mr. Pepys would say, "to bed." Next morning his faith was justified. It arrived by post, in a neat parcel sealed at each end, and inside, printed by the little piano, "I hope you were not worried about it. I found the weapon when I got back." "There," said Paul, "didn’t I say so? I _knew_ he wasn’t a throwing-away sort of man." *XIX* *A MISFIT*