At this, Alfred smiles - but it's strained...sad, in a way that is different from his normal expressions. Hurt. Old, deep hurt.

"...My family name is Schreiber. Scholars, on my Father's side. He's an archivist. Very old fashioned, god fearing, but very smart. I could ask him anything about science, or history...and he would tell me where to find a book."

His gaze wanders down to the stack on his lap, a hand resting on the top cover.

"...But if I asked about anything like this? If he found anything that he thought was...was inappropriate, or vapid, or...or feminine, it was always the same. He would tell me that wasn't what a good man would want to do."

Bright blue eyes travel back up to Georg.

"...But... you're a good man. And you don't treat me like I'm any less, for wanting to know anything."