"Well--what is she then, may I ask?"
"My friend."
"Your friend?" His father gave a short angry laugh. "Friend--very well, but it's rather early for you to have such a friend. I forbid you to have friends of such doubtful, such more than doubtful character."
"She isn't doubtful." Wolfgang's eyes sparkled. How right Frau Lämke was when she said the other day to him when he went to see them again: "Although I'm very pleased to see you, don't come too often, Wolfgang. Frida is only a poor girl, and such a one gets talked about at once."
No, there was nothing doubtful about her. The son looked his father full in the face, pale with fury. "She's as respectable a girl as any. How can you speak of her like that? How d----" He faltered, he was in such a fury that his voice failed.
"Dare--only say it straight out, dare." The man had more control over himself now, he had become quieter, for what he saw in his boy's face seemed to him to be honest indignation. No, he was not quite ruined yet, he had only been led astray, such women prefer to hang on to quite young people. And he said persuasively, meaning well: "Get away from the whole thing as quickly as possible. You'll save yourself much unpleasantness. I'll help you with it."
"Thanks." The young fellow stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and stood there with an arrogant expression on his face.
His soft mood had disappeared long ago, it had flown as soon as he took the first step into the room; now he was in the mood not to stand anything whatever. They had insulted Frida.
"Where does she live?" his father asked.
"You would like to know that, I daresay." His son laughed scornfully; it gave him a certain satisfaction to withhold her address, they were so curious. They should never find it out. It was not at all necessary to tell them. He threw his head back insolently, and did not answer.