Imagine her boy in his father's name a young collegian! No commonly sensitive lad could bear the gibes of the fellows raking at antecedents: Fleetwood would be the name to start roars.

Smarting for his name, the earl chafed at the boy's mother.

Her production of a man-child was the further and grosser offence.
The world sat on him.

His confession to some degree of weakness, even to folly, stung his pride of individuality so that he had to soothe the pain by tearing himself from a thought of his folly's partner, shutting himself up and away from her.

Then there was a cessation of annoyance, flatteringly agreeable: which can come to us only of our having done the right thing, young men will think.