Except by Jack, Brancepeth was wholly forgotten, consigned to that oblivion which society spreads like a pall over even the memories of the absent. His father and mother heard from him at intervals; no one else. He was one of the many who have gone too fast, who pull up perforce, and drop off the course: such non-stayers interest no one. The men with whom he had gone out to the South Pole, and later to the Cape, returned, and said they had left him there. That was all. He had spoken of exploration. They supposed that meant he had gone “on the make.” He had been a very popular man, but popularity is a flame which must be kept alight by the fuel of contact and of conversation: absence extinguishes it instantly. Jack thought about a great many things, especially when he was shut up for his sins all alone, an event which occurred frequently. The sum of his thoughts were not favorable to his mother. “Mother has driven Harry away,” he said to himself. Why? Perhaps because Harry had come to an end of his money? Perhaps Harry had finished it all buying that Punch which his mother had taken from him? “If I was sure of that, and if I knew where he was, I’d walk all the world over till I found him,” thought Jack; and wondered how he could make out where Harry was gone. No one ever even spoke of Harry. Who could he ask? He asked his groom one morning when he had halted under a tree very early in the Park. “I have no idea, sir, where Lord Brancepeth is,” said the groom, who was a miracle of discretion. “Couldn’t you ask?” said Jack. “I don’t think I could, sir.” “Wherever he is, he’s got Cuckoopint.” “Has he indeed, sir?” “Yes; because he promised. He always keeps a promise.” “That’s a very good quality, sir.” “He’s all good,” said Jack solemnly. The discreet groom smothered a smile. “I’ll give you five shillings, Philips, if you can find him and Cuckoopint,” said Jack, pulling two half-crowns out of his knickerbockers. “Make it ten, sir, and I’ll do it,” said the virtuous groom. “I’ll make it ten,” said Jack. “But it must be next week, for I’ve spent all they give me except this.” “Next week will do, sir,” said the groom, slipping the half-crowns in his waistcoat pocket. Jack did not speak of this transaction to anyone, not even to Boo. He loved his sister, but he had discovered of late years that Boo, to “get in with mammy” and get taken to a garden party or a pastoral play or a picture exhibition, would not hesitate to betray him and his confidences. “I wouldn’t ever betray _you_,” he said once in reproach. “Then you’d be a silly not to, if you’d get anything by it,” said Boo, with her little chin in the air and her big eyes shut up into two slits, which was her manner of expressing extreme derision. “You’re so dishon’able ’cause you’re a girl,” said Jack, with more sorrow than anger.