got it with flying colors.

Thenceforward one would have thought that a brilliant and favorable
mental development was secured to him. Not at all. The moment
of his quarrel with his father and his college had, in fact,
represented a moment of energy, of comparative success, which never
recurred. It Was as though this outburst of action and liberty had
disappointed him, as if some deep-rooted instinct--cold, critical,
reflective--had reasserted itself, condemning him and his censors
equally. The uselessness of utterance, the futility of enthusiasm,
the inaccessibility of the ideal, the practical absurdity of trying
to realize any of the mind's inward dreams: these were the kind of
considerations which descended upon him, slowly and fatally, crushing
down the newly springing growths of action or of passion. It was
as though life had demonstrated to him the essential truth of a
childish saying of his own which had startled and displeased his
Calvinist mother years before. "Mother," the delicate, large-eyed
child had said to her one day in a fit of physical weariness, "how
is it I dislike the things I dislike so much more than I like the
things I like?"

So he wrote no more, he quarreled no more, he meddled with the great
passionate things of life and expression no more. On his taking
up residence in St. Anselm's, indeed, and on his being appointed
first lecturer and then tutor, he had a momentary pleasure in the
thought of teaching. His mind was a storehouse of thought and fact,
and to the man brought up at a dull provincial day-school and never
allowed to associate freely with his kind, the bright lads fresh
from Eton and Harrow about him were singularly attractive. But a
few terms were enough to scatter this illusion too. He could not