Of Satin Waistcoats and Velour Floppy Hats
Mr. Wainwright entered the parlour with a long, deep bow to Mrs. Moss and her four daughters. The mother was civil but none of the girls could stand the sight of him. Miss Moss hated him the least of all her sisters, so she beckoned him over to her computer with a polite nod. In keeping with the neo-retro-Edwardian mannerisms, Mr. B. Wainwright stood but did not lean as he regarded the beautiful Miss Moss and her terminal.
"Beautiful weather, come Sunday", he said, reading from the accepted script flashed on his retina by the Emily Post 2059 laser implant.
"Mmmm..", she agreed.
"What do you fancy we anti-grav to the cricket match?" he said, leaning in close. He was hoping she would smell the pheremone cologne on his cravat. She showed no sign of it, sitting primly.
To cover the awkwardness, Sophie came and took Mr. Wainwright's hat, brushing the dust from it. The girls and mother eyed her gratefully. "What," one of them whispered, when the sound of an incoming trans made a distractive noise across the room; "Why is he here--"
"I am here to execute the business of the late, Miles Standish Moss," Mr. Wainwright offered, indicating that he heard the question with his hearing implant. The formal use of their grandfather's name quieted the girls instantly. Their mother, Lydia Moss, simply regarded the man with a severe gaze.
Miss Moss was not yet five and twenty but she had the sense to know that nothing good could come from the documents her beau was taking from out of his waistcoat. He was a man of fashion so his waistcoat was of the finest, toughest satin on the market today. But he had only $140,000 a year.
Alicia, the youngest, got up and dawdled by the window, looking for a sign of the dog. She was tisked back by Mrs. Moss and she flounced down in a pout. Nell, second youngest, elbowed her savagely.
