As Sunday approached, Tristan increasingly dreaded the dinner appointment. He wondered what had possessed him to invite Mr. Carrington over. Not only did he absolutely not have the means to host a dinner, he also dreaded giving up his one quiet day of the week to a man who habitually insulted him. But he could hardly cancel now.
 
So here he was. The table was laid, Tristan was in his Sunday best, mouthwatering smells rose from the kitchen, Pippa had outdone herself, and Tristan was even more broke. He wasn’t going to be able to redeem that watch chain he had pledged this month.
 
Oh yeah, by the way, he wasn’t going to show Mr. Carrington how the actually ‘doctor poor’ lived. Rather, he’d show the lifestyle of the ‘comfortably middle class’ that he still pretended to be a part of.
 
He stood in a still comfortable and very clean drawing room, looking out over the hustle and bustle of Flowergate below through one of the large windows. There was a good (albeit second hand) couch and two comfortable armchairs around a low chestnut table. A fake persian rug on the floor. Several vases with fresh flowers standing about. An Asian fan covering the grate that hadn't been lit yet since the summer to save money.

The large bookcases on one side of the room were little emptier than they had been in the past. A number of miniature Greek statues and art pieces had been stored away last May. Several books had been sold for quick money more recently. But there were still many books on the shelves: a collection of English, French and Italian novels; several anthologies of poems by Romantic poets: Wordsworth, Keats, Coleridge; a copy of the Iliad and the Odyssey in ancient Greek and several Latin classics; some medical works he didn’t have space for in his study; a collection of philosophical, political, artistic and scientific treatises: Darwin’s ‘On the Origin of Species’ and ‘Descent of Man’, Harding’s ‘The Principles & Practice of Art’, which he had never more than scanned through but he thought it made him look accomplished, some English translations of works by Hegel and Kant he had never managed to struggle through, but had pretended understand during drunken philosophical discussions back in university.
 
He didn’t have money, but at least he was able to maintain a certain aesthetic.
 
He reached all the way into his breast pocket to take out his watch and looked back out over the street. He had expected Mr. Carrington to be here already. If he didn’t show up, Tristan would be so… nah, actually, he’d be relieved.

Darius had been instructed to walk. It was one of those days where he was revolted by the idea of taking a taxi. Old memories haunted him and his stomach flipped at the idea of being in that small box with a madman as a driver whipping down the street full speed. The sun was perhaps better, he felt like he could breathe clearer outside of his home. The breeze was refreshing as well.

But he'd give it all up for a good glass of wine. He was still struggling to find the rare bottle around the house, and so now he was begging the fates that this doctor would give him something drinkable. He was wearing what he thought was fine. It wasn't his nice clothing, it was average though in his mind it was perhaps too fine for the average poor. Was anyone watching him, hoping he'd go down a dark alley? He wasn't that foolish. He kept walking calmly through the streets and got annoyed as he realized he wasn't exactly sure where the street was and afraid to ask someone. Darius would be thought of as an idiot if he'd asked someone where a place was in a town he'd lived all his life. Finally though, he'd found it. He might be a minute late, but so what? It was considered fashionable.

He considered coming up politely and showing how well mannered he could be. Instead, the art inside came out sporadically as he gave a sweeping step to come up to the door at the last minute and gave a rhythmic knock. "Doctor, I have arrived!" he said. The medicine had been helping him at least have a little energy and he didn't feel like the walking dead.

Since Pippa was busy in the kitchen and, more importantly, he did not want to expose the already vulnerable young woman to the disaster that was Mr. Carrington, not alone anyway, he went downstairs to open the door himself - even if it did make him look poorer.

"Mr. Carrington, how are you?" he said in as cheerful a tone as he could muster. Did the other man seem to look just slightly healthier than last time? "Can I take your hat? Do come through. We're upstairs." And if Darius let him, he took the hat and put it on the stand. Then he led the man upstairs into the drawing room. Did it look drabber as he reentered it? "Do sit down. Dinner is almost ready." He would ring for drinks but his one maid was busy.