"Hello," she said, and from his own eyes, hers flickered down to where her hand was held out to him. He was aware of Slater drawing in a breath and putting his head back the way he always did when he was rolling his eyes, but before Slater could say anything, Graham quickly nodded, switched his glass to the other hand, and took the woman's small hand in his, shaking it formally.

"Ah... hello." Her hand was cold. How old was she? Mid-twenties? He let her hand go. She was still looking at him. Her figure even looked good; he wanted to weep, or throw her over his shoulder and just run. What was she? How could she do this to him? She was still looking at him. Such calm, steady eyes, the iris and the pupil almost one. Arches of deep dark brows like some perfect mathematical line. He could smell her; a cold sharp distant sort of musk, like a window on to a forest of winter pine.

"You mustn't worry," she was saying, smiling at him, "Richard hasn't said very much about you." She looked at the other young man, who had retrieved his glass and was watching Sara and Graham with a smile on his face, almost a smirk. He shrugged.

"He's never even - " Graham swallowed, tried to stop himself sounding too amazed," - mentioned you." She smiled at that, first at him, then Slater. She stuffed her black gloves into a pocket in the padded jacket.

"Well," she said, looking at them in turn again, lifting her face to gaze directly at Graham, "if I may make so bold, chaps, how about a drink? I was bringing my own but I put it in the wrong pocket of my coat and it fell through the lining and smashed." Her eyebrows arched suddenly. Slater laughed.

"What a wonderful story, Sara.