The spotty-faced youth’s father was a doctor, and he had three brothers, and on the way he regaled Frederic with tales of their escapades and the narrow squeaks they had had, and the great score it was to have a father who was a man of the world and understood these things. He became so foul-mouthed that Frederic stopped him.
“If you don’t shut up I shall go home.”
“Right ho!” said the spotty-faced youth. “Only I did think you had a better sense of fun. You didn’t seem to mind Old Lawrie talking about Burns and Meg.”
“That’s different. That’s poetry.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Like ‘Lucrece’ and ‘Venus and Adonis.’”
“Well. They’re pretty hot.”
“Oh! Shut up.”
Frederic did not rightly understand why he was so indignant with his companion. He was conscious of a difference between the two things—frank acceptance and fumbling—but he could not put his finger on it, nor could he discover why for the first time in years of folly he should feel a sense of shame. It grew on him as they walked up the Kersley Road and, by the second lamp-post past the bishop’s gate, saw the two young women arm-in-arm pacing slowly in front of them.