Felix got up and gravely extended his hand to Stanley.

"By Jove," he said, "you've spoken truth." And to John he added: "Well,
I WILL go, and let you know the upshot."

When he had departed, the two elder brothers remained for some moments
silent, then Stanley said:

"Old Felix is a bit tryin'! With the fuss they make of him in the
papers, his head's swelled!"

John 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?"