Iago wriggles in my arms and I set him down on the balcony. He springs up onto the little iron table and sets about washing his paws. He is quite aged now, but his fur is still black as midnight, and he is still as lithe and light on his feet as ever. He has had no trouble adjusting to his new surroundings and seems to enjoy our high vantage point as much as I do. I doubt he appreciates the finer points of the design of the building, however. I think the place quite wonderful. After my childhood spent surrounded by the dark clutter favored by followers of Victorian fashion, and then Mama’s giddying swirls of Art Nouveau at Fitzroy Square, I was at once drawn to the fresh, clean lines and elegant simplicity of Waterloo Court. The apartments are spread over seven bone-white floors, all with balconies overlooking the river, with woodwork, windows, and smooth railings picked out in pale mint green. Some people have expressed their horror at the bold shapes and unfamiliar proportions that this new style dictates, but I find them perfectly fitting for the age we are now in. Frivolity and frippery would be out of place. The era of excess has gone. How much more dignified, more honest, somehow, this modern fashion is.

Of course I would rather Fitzroy Square had been spared. It was our family home, and I had been happy there. Its being bombed was yet another cause for heartbreak for Mama, and I forbid her from visiting the ruins. Not only was the house damaged beyond saving, but lives were lost that terrible night. Many of the servants were still downstairs in the kitchens or had moved to the shelter in the basement area to the front of the house. Some, though, had already gone up to their attic bedrooms and were killed the instant the bomb fell. We lost Cook and Sarah, the scullery maid. And our housekeeper, dear Mrs. Jessop, whose absence Mama feels dreadfully.