It was witty and damaging in the highest degree, and each man as he read it had vowed vengeance.

Falloden had been especially mocked in it.

Some pompous tricks of manner peculiar to Falloden in his insolent moods, had been worked into a pseudo-scientific examination of the qualities proper to a "blood," with the happiest effect.

Falloden grew white as he read it.
Perhaps on the morrow it would be in Constance Bledlow's hands.

The galling memories of the evening just over were burning too in his veins.
That open humiliation in the sight of Oxford had been her answer to his prayer--his appeal.