She had been charmed.
It was so 'chic.' And Publius Valerius became the baby's name, though it afterwards transpired that they had got hold of the inferior Cato.

In 1890, however, when little Publius was nearly ten, the word 'chic' went out of fashion, and sobriety came in; Winifred began to have doubts.
They were confirmed by little Publius himself who returned from his first term at school complaining that life was a burden to him--they called him Pubby.

Winifred--a woman of real decision--promptly changed his school and his name to Val, the Publius being dropped even as an initial.
At nineteen he was a limber, freckled youth with a wide mouth, light eyes, long dark lashes; a rather charming smile, considerable knowledge of what he should not know, and no experience of what he ought to do.
Few boys had more narrowly escaped being expelled--the engaging rascal.
After kissing his mother and pinching Imogen, he ran upstairs three at a time, and came down four, dressed for dinner.

He was awfully sorry, but his 'trainer,' who had come up too, had asked him to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge; it wouldn't do to miss--the old chap would be hurt.
Winifred let him go with an unhappy pride.

She had wanted him at home, but it was very nice to know that his tutor was so fond of him.