Dr. Morale's Dilemma

The brisk night air was thick with London’s fog that suffocated the air so tight the lawyer often found himself gasping like a goldfish for oxygen. It was a gift from heaven when Mr. Redgrave opened the door and allowed the guest in, “The Doctor is dining in his cabinet, he welcomes you, Mr. Ernest.”
The lawyer tipped his hat in acknowledgement before heading into the fire-lit study of Doctor Morale, an older man of at least 60, his spirit tonight seemed drained and almost pale, as though the Grim Reaper was running his cold scythe down Morale’s crooked spine. “You wished to see me,” Ernest spoke, seeing a porcelain bowl in the Doctor’s lap and a silver spoon his arthritis stricken hand.
Dr. Morale smiled on his thin face, but it disappeared like the burned embers of the fire, “Yes, and I have grave news, my friend. It troubles me, sickens me even—I need you to help me make sense of it all.”
Dr. Morale was always a dear friend to him and seldom ever confused by something, even in his old age, “Anything,” Nodded Ernest, seeing his old companion lower his meal and point to a dainty basket of wicker, stripes of eggshell pink laced about it. It seemed harmless enough and Ernest gazed back at Morale with a look of honest confusion. There was a silence, then Morale pointed urgently, “The sooner you look at it the sooner you can put my mind at ease, tell me what do you see.”
”It’s a wedding invitation,” Ernest smiled, “Your daughter Alex is to be wed to a Sir Arnold Finch, she wishes you’d join.”
The frown stayed on Morales’ face and he seemed deeply troubled, “Alex is the name of my son.”

Word Count- 295 /OTL