“You know perfectly well what I mean, Whately. You flirted, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose that’s what I did do. I flirted.”
“I mean you held her hand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you kissed her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Disgusting! Simply disgusting! Is this place a heathen brothel or a Christian school?” Carus’ face was red, and he drove his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. “You go out on a Sunday afternoon and kiss a shop-girl. What a hobby for a boy in the XV. and Sixth!” And he began to stamp backwards and forwards up and down the room.
This fine indignation did not, however, impress Roland in the least. Carus appeared to him to be less disgusted than interested—pruriently interested—and that he was angry with himself rather than with Roland, because he knew instinctively that he was not feeling as a master should feel when confronted with such a scandal. It was a forced emotion that was inspiring the fierce flow of words.
“Do you know what this sort of thing leads to?” he was saying. “But, of course, you do. I could trust you to know anything like that. Your whole life may be ruined by it.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”