Tristan picked up the defensive tone and for a moment he feared that he had ruined everything. Then Mr. Meijer went to fetch the champagne and Tristan relaxed the moment he was out of the room.

He put his hands over his face, scolded himself for his mistake, then lowered his hands to feel his jaw. His eyebrows knitted together. He wished he had spent more care this morning trimming. He lowered his hand further, straightened and patted down his clothes, fixed his tie. He wished he had put on his finest waistcoat, the fancy dark green one with the gold-thread patterning, not this old brown thing. He did not like the orange suit Mr. Meijer was wearing, but at least the man thought about his clothes. He probably had probably already thought about Tristan's clothes as well, and Tristan didn't care to know the man's judgement.

Did he know a lot about champagne? Tristan had learned some wine etiquette at formal dinners in school and at university, but it was long ago since he had last been in polished company. He didn't drink much, and when he did, it was usually on his own.

He looked around the drawing room. More elegant than his own. He could see the sea from the window. This was clearly a summer home. Mr. Meijer could afford one. Tristan was already finding himself struggling with the rent of his own home.

When Mr. Meijer returned, Tristan looked up and smiled pleasantly as if he had not just been comparing them and came out bottom. The two bottles were a cause of concern, but he did not want to offend Mr. Meijer again. He just hoped the man would open one bottle at a time. Getting drunk and losing their minds the day after Oscar Wilde was arrested for following his nature was a bad idea.

"This is a fine house," he commented lightly.