04-14-2021, 07:15 PM
His lordship? Tristan hadn't been aware of the fact that the artist held such a status. He instantly felt uneasy, but it was too late to turn back. "Dr. Tristan Wells. Here's my card." And he handed his card to the butler. He stepped in as the butler indicated, and took off his bowler hat, but he didn't sit down. Instead, he took the opportunity to look around the hallway while the butler was gone and get an impression of what kind of man the artist was. For a 'lord' the house was remarkably modest - pleasant and comfortable, certainly, and far better decorated than Tristan's rather empty home, but nothing grand. Perhaps he was just passing through and had no intention to settle.
Tristan's attention was drawn by the paintings on the walls. He wondered whether they were made by the occupant. He squinted his eyes slightly as he observed the small details. These were simple scenes of around town, nothing spectacular or extraordinary, and yet it seemed to Tristan that they captured the scenes so brilliantly that they expressed their essence better than the actual locations themselves.
His silent musings over these little works of art were interrupted when the butler returned, and Tristan remembered where he was. The first thing that caught his attention when he stepped into the room were strong, exposed forearms, though they were quickly covered up when the artist made himself decent for company. Clearly he had not been expecting anyone, and Tristan had interrupted him in a project. Tristan felt awkward and his voice came out less confident than usually. "Good afternoon, my lord," he said. "I am Dr. Wells. I was looking for an artist to do a portrait." The artist was very tall, strong and handsome. With a title, looks, and apparent fame, he was doubtlessly the center of attention on the marriage market, unless he already had a lucky lady. He seemed old enough. But he was an artist after all, so perhaps he was a bachelor. Tristan's eyes moved to the paintings quickly and he conjectured that the paintings in the hall were indeed by the same hand.
Tristan's attention was drawn by the paintings on the walls. He wondered whether they were made by the occupant. He squinted his eyes slightly as he observed the small details. These were simple scenes of around town, nothing spectacular or extraordinary, and yet it seemed to Tristan that they captured the scenes so brilliantly that they expressed their essence better than the actual locations themselves.
His silent musings over these little works of art were interrupted when the butler returned, and Tristan remembered where he was. The first thing that caught his attention when he stepped into the room were strong, exposed forearms, though they were quickly covered up when the artist made himself decent for company. Clearly he had not been expecting anyone, and Tristan had interrupted him in a project. Tristan felt awkward and his voice came out less confident than usually. "Good afternoon, my lord," he said. "I am Dr. Wells. I was looking for an artist to do a portrait." The artist was very tall, strong and handsome. With a title, looks, and apparent fame, he was doubtlessly the center of attention on the marriage market, unless he already had a lucky lady. He seemed old enough. But he was an artist after all, so perhaps he was a bachelor. Tristan's eyes moved to the paintings quickly and he conjectured that the paintings in the hall were indeed by the same hand.
