That evening, we dressed carefully in our smartened togs, passed Mother’s stringent inspection, then hailed a cab to Mayfair and presented ourselves at his father’s door at precisely eight P.M.
His housekeeper ushered us into the drawing room where Mr Waters awaited us.
“Trevalyan, how nice to finally meet you.” He greeted me with a broad smile and a strong handshake. He was fit-looking, about his son’s height, with the same brown eyes and hair, although wings of white stretched back from his temples.
This, I imagined, was how my lover would look in thirty years.
He glanced at his son, and the smile left his face. “Jeremy.”
“Father. It’s good to—”
“Yes, yes.” His father turned back to me. “Sherry?”
“Thank you, sir.” I took the glass he poured for me and handed it to Jeremy.
Mr Wate
