He was stupid, useless at games, having only somewhere behind his fat ugly body a longing to be connected with some cause, some movement, some person of whom he might make a hero.
He had, of course, within the first fortnight of his arrival, plunged himself into dire disgrace.

He had asked Lawrence, coming like a young god from Marlborough, in to coffee; they had made him drunk and laughed at his hysterical tears: in his desire for popularity he had held a gathering in his room, with the original intention of coffee, cakes and gentle conversation; the evening had ended with the arrival of all his furniture and personal effects upon the grass of the court below his windows.
He had been despised by the Dons, buffeted and derided by his fellow undergraduates.

Especially had Carfax and Cardillac made his life a burden to him, and whenever it seemed that there was nothing especial to do, the cry arose, "Let's go and rag Bunning," and five minutes later that fat body would tremble at the sound of many men climbing the wooden stairs, at the loud banging on his wooden door, at the cry, "Hullo, Bunning--we've come for some coffee." Then, towards the end of the first year, the Cambridge Christian Union flung out its net and caught him.

His attempt at personal popularity had failed here as thoroughly as it had failed at school--now for his soul.
He found that the gentlemen of his college who were members of the Christian Union were eager for his company.

They did not laugh at his conversation nor mock his proffered hospitalities.