Beyond the mere prettiness and pinky whiteness of a healthy country lass,
Miss Chaworth evidently had no beauties of character, save those conjured
forth from the inner consciousness of the poet--a not wholly original
condition.

Byron loved the Ideal. And this love-affair with Miss Chaworth is only
valuable as showing the evolution of imagination in the poet. The woman
hadn't the slightest idea that she was giving wings to a soul--to her the
affair was simply funny.

The fact that Byron's great-uncle, from whom he had inherited his title,
had killed the grandfather of Miss Chaworth in a duel, lent a romantic
tinge to the matter--the boy was doing a sort of penance, and in one of
his poems hints at the undoing of the sin of his kinsman by the lifelong
devotion that he will bestow. This calling up the past, and incautious
revealing of the fact that the ancestor Chaworth could not hold his own
with a Byron, but allowed himself to be run through the body by the Byron
cold steel, was not pleasing to Miss Chaworth.

"Don't imagine I am such a fool as to love that lame boy," cried Miss
Chaworth to her maid one day.

Unluckily, "the lame boy" was in the next room and heard the remark.

He rushed from the house with a something gripping at his heart.
Straightway he would go back to Harrow, which he had left in wrath only a
few months before.

So he went to Harrow.