Simpson stayed in bed so Oliver kept away in the hope that if they didn’t argue he wouldn’t feel compelled to leave, but by afternoon he couldn’t keep away. He tapped at the door and entered to find Dixon settling the new coat on Simpson’s shoulders. Oliver found it hard to breathe for a moment. Simpson’s hair was clean and brushed, shining gold in the weak afternoon sun. He was dressed simply, but elegantly. Cravat tied to a nicety and blue cutaway coat that sat well. Dixon, bless his heart, had found a walking stick with a gold handle and Simpson leaned on it as he stood.
“You look well,” was all Oliver could manage.
“It would be hard not to in these clothes,” Simpson said, gesturing down his body. “Thank you very much.”
“No need for thanks.”
Simpson turned to the mirror and inspecte
