Any embarrassment on her side was lost in the vehement disapproval on Barnaby’s side. Tut. Men these days. “If I were –” of any use, I would rectify that for you myself, he had begun saying without thinking... but that was unhelpful on many levels, so he sufficed to throw her a look of utter, lingering sympathy.
“Do you know a poet by the name of Thomas Nashe?” Barnaby asked, quite unabashed by the candour of this conversation – although he did not mean did she know him personally; he had, of course, been a man of Barnaby’s time. “Perhaps you ought to obtain a copy of The Choise of Valentines* for your husband,” he suggested (unaware that said poem had fallen far out of publication by this point; he well remembered the original being passed around his friendship circles). “Nashe’s Dildo, you know. ‘Tis all too common a tale, but ‘tis only fair that you should seek your gratification one way or another.”
*this poem
“Do you know a poet by the name of Thomas Nashe?” Barnaby asked, quite unabashed by the candour of this conversation – although he did not mean did she know him personally; he had, of course, been a man of Barnaby’s time. “Perhaps you ought to obtain a copy of The Choise of Valentines* for your husband,” he suggested (unaware that said poem had fallen far out of publication by this point; he well remembered the original being passed around his friendship circles). “Nashe’s Dildo, you know. ‘Tis all too common a tale, but ‘tis only fair that you should seek your gratification one way or another.”
