ohn did not answer. One could not in so many words resent one's own
brother being made a fuss of, and if it had been for something
real, such as discovering the source of the Black River, conquering
Bechuanaland, curing Blue-mange, or being made a Bishop, he would have
been the first and most loyal in his appreciation; but for the sort of
thing Felix made up--Fiction, and critical, acid, destructive sort
of stuff, pretending to show John Freeland things that he hadn't seen
before--as if Felix could!--not at all the jolly old romance which one
could read well enough and enjoy till it sent you to sleep after a good
day's work. No! that Felix should be made a fuss of for such work as
that really almost hurt him. It was not quite decent, violating deep
down one's sense of form, one's sense of health, one's traditions.
Though he would not have admitted it, he secretly felt, too, that this
fuss was dangerous to his own point of view, which was, of course, to
him the only real one. And he merely said:

"Will you stay to dinner, Stan?"

CHAPTER III

If John had those sensations about Felix, so--when he was away from
John--had Felix about himself. He had never quite grown out of the
feeling that to make himself conspicuous in any way was bad form.
In common with his three brothers he had been through the mills of
gentility--those unique grinding machines of education only found in his
native land. Tod, to be sure, had been publicly sacked at the end of his
third term, for climbing on to the headmaster's roof and filling up two
of his chimneys with football pants, from which he had omitted to remove
his name. Felix still remembered the august scene--the horrid thrill of
it, the ominous sound of that: "Freeland minimus!" the ominous sight of
poor little Tod emerging from his obscurity near the roof of the Speech
Room, and descending all those steps. How very small and rosy he had
looked, his bright hair standing on end, and his little blue eyes
staring up very hard from under a troubled frown. And the august hand
holding up those sooty pants, and the august voice: "These appear to
be yours, Freeland minimus. Were you so good as to put them down my
chimneys?" And the little piping, "Yes, sir."

"May I ask why, Freeland minimus?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You must have had some reason, Freeland minimus?"

"It was the end of term, sir."

"Ah! You must not come back here, Freeland minimus. You are too
dangerous, to yoursel