The early morning in London still carried the silk-like drizzle that was ever so common.
On Doughty Street, Southwark, London, sturdy boots crushed into the puddles between the brick seams, splashing water everywhere.
Tough leather thigh-high boots, tight-fitting deerskin riding breeches, paired with a perfectly-fitted hourglass-shaped blue-black frock coat, a belt with a silver buckle, a cream-colored waistcoat matched with a deep black linen shirt with ruffled trim, and a cravat.
Soft white gloves raised delicately upwards, a black cloth umbrella slightly propped open, revealing the pair of black eyes with a red glint hidden underneath and a high-top hat.
Arthur had a pipe in his mouth, emitting puffs of white vapor from his nose now and then, making it difficult to distinguish whether the vapor was mostly steam or nicotine.
