Fitzroy Prewett was keenly aware of the ticking of pocket-watch tucked away—less literally and more figuratively, of course. In another hour or so, he could reasonably call it an early day and abandon his office and all its weight in favour of a rousing dinner before his mother's party. Then he would be free until into the new year.

Doubtless, that hour would seem impossibly long.

"Yes," he called out in response to the knock upon his office door, not in the least bit sad to have a reason to abandon the reports he was pretending to read.