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.