#bevens

Rey, not satisfied with the clamour of the bell, decided instead, to rap upon the door (making an atrocious sound). A bald man, of the most butler-come-to-mind image, opened the door, eyes downcast without so much as a courteous smile on his lips. “Good day, sir!” said Walston Rey, who extended his hand almost prematurely. “Would this be the Lambrick residence, I've heard tell of?” Bevens, the butler, didn't think too much about the entirely grey man before him. He turned back toward the inside of the mansion, half-way closing the door as he so did. Walston was a man rarely seen without his cane – The kind often possessed by magicians and charlatanry showman.  Mr. Lambrick was a hard nut to crack; Rey didn't wish his first impression to be as though he were selling something. He was selling something. Walston plodded around the darkly finished porch, tested a floor board with his high-gloss loafers, swabbing the columns of the structure with his finger tip. He glanced at his timepiece a moment. Tired with the inspection of the portico, Walston proceeded to play with the lint inside the silk-lined pockets of his blazer. “The master's not in at present,” spoke Bevens. Rey wasn't the least startled at the sudden re-appearance of this ageing staff member. “He doesn't take kindly to one's without reservations,” the butler added dryly. Walston started to raise a protesting finger in the air, a smart of witticism at the end of tongue, but ultimately opted the more pleasantly eager route. “Then I shall wait for him here.” he said. “Mr. Lambrick won't be back for [pause] at least another hour...sir?” said Bevens. “Forgive my” – he searched for the desired word – “Insolence, sir. Walston Rey!” He smiled, crow's feet clawing their way through the tautened skin.