Nate Appleton was admitted to the house after a fashion. His own fashion was a navy blue three piece suit, the cut and colour befitting the gravity of his profession. The local predilection to the colour brown reminded him too much of his nearby rustic origins. Yet, he was not so stuffy that his hair was shorn to the conformist style currently in vogue with the guards at Buckingham Palace. Rather, it hugged his collar loosely. Similarly his Lincoln's Inn tie, that visible badge d'honeur, pass into hallowed halls was fastened hastily about his neck at an angle. The whole image crafted to with care to suggest that he actually did not. With routine, he deposited his hat and gloves as indictated.

There was no need for him to ask to see Miss Mason. She had already begun her descent. His eyes widened as he recognised "I say!" All trace of Yorkshire-isms obliterated from his voice, just the polish of the home counties remained. That drab little creature who had convinced him of this bizarre union had been transformed into a stunning vision now coming down from on high. Not entirely unrelated, his trousers chose that moment to tighten.