06-02-2024, 11:37 AM
(This post was last modified: 06-02-2024, 11:47 AM by Tristan Wells.)
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.
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.
