Bertie lounged in one of the plush chairs in the main room of the flat, immersing himself in Rex West's latest detective novel. A lazy gasper smouldered away in his fingers, and, raising it to his lips, he allowed his head to fall backwards as he exhaled an indulgent plume of smoke, hovering in the still, inside air. The clock on the mantelpiece
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The Master gave a slight bow and grinned. The Time Lord was dressed in what may have been a surprisingly formal way - white tie, black tailcoat, impeccably ironed trousers, slick patent leather shoes. He was holding a large wrapped bottle in one hand.
He looked Bertie over and quirked his lip.
"...Suddenly I feel terribly overdressed. No matter, erm, may I come in?"
[He's in white tie dress - Like this and this - the latter is apparently Master as Jack the Ripper. l-lol.]
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And approve he undoubtedly would. Granted, Harry looked rather as if he were headed for the opera instead of merely the flat of a friend, but the clothes were all impeccably tailored and cut, and the general effect was one of sartorial elegance of the highest degree. Bertie grinned and bounced slightly on the balls of his feet.
'Do sit down, Harry- if I can call you Harry. And drinks, yes! Any particular preference? I'll whip us up a something or two and then join you, eh?'
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He sauntered slowly around a chair, taking in the lay of things, hands behind his back and a faint smile still playing on his lips. He had forgotten the charm of this era.
"They don't make places like this anymore. It's lovely. And - ah, yes, certainly. Let's see, a... Pink Gin, if you may. It's been far too long."
He set down his things and furrowed his brow. "...You do have that in your time, don't you? Bitters are a very 19th Century Earth sort of thing..."
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