Harry Fisher, dressed to the nines, did not feel comfortable among these people. They were much different than the sort he usually dealt with, and this was not the Salon or the Ball or the Opera, situations he had managed to infiltrate successfully.
But there was a first time for everything. And his boys, bless them, had worked hard this morning and the night before, and although the journey had bored them, the clearer air seemed to do them good. Even so, with their little production only a few hours away, they needed a rest, and Harry Fisher needed to step outside. It was a bright day- although not overly warm, and from the House you could see miles and miles of countryside, laid out. Whoever had built this place certainly was keen to impress.
He put that to the back of him mind. Tobias Hurst was a good client, if not a regular, and he could already hear a few familiar voices from the rugs and cushions that defined the picnic. He sat himself down on a chair after claiming a glass of (he had no doubt) overly expensive wine.