Indeed the press of London had yielded itself up to an encomiastic orgy.

His modesty tried to say that this was slightly overdone; but his impartiality asked, "Really, what _could_ they say against me ?" As a rule unmitigated praise was nauseous but here they were undoubtedly genuine, the fellows; their sentences rang true! Never in his life had he been so satisfied with the scheme of the universe! He was nearly consoled for the dissolution of Leek.
When, after continued reading, he came across a phrase which discreetly insinuated, apropos of the policeman and the penguins, that capriciousness in the choice of subject was perhaps a pose with him, the accusation hurt.
"Pose!" he inwardly exclaimed.

"What a lie! The man's an ass!" And he resented the following remark which concluded a 'special memoir' extremely laudatory in matter and manner, by an expert whose books he had always respected: "However, contemporary judgments are in the large majority of cases notoriously wrong, and it behooves us to remember this in choosing a niche for our idol.

Time alone can settle the ultimate position of Priam Farll." Useless for his modesty to whisper to him that contemporary judgments _were_ notoriously wrong.

He did not like it.