Most of the local buildings were given over to support St. George’s Hospital—various departments and training centers housed in Edwardian apartment blocks, specialist offices in white stucco terraces, their names and specialties inscribed on bold brass plaques—and there squeezed among them was number nineteen, the only house between the hospital and the Old Barrack Yard. Behind its glossy black door, a vast white hallway was lit by gold filigree wall-lamps, and a luxurious red carpet covered the expansive curve of the staircase. Alice climbed it steadily, her pain dulled for the moment by drugs, her mood optimistic at the prospect of making progress.

An engraved wall plate on the first floor announced the association, and she knocked and entered, tentatively looking around. The large room could easily have been mistaken for a theater lounge: brocade curtains encased the floor-to-ceiling windows, and rosewood side tables sat next to two green velvet chesterfields on thick oriental rugs. It struck her that this environment couldn’t be further from the kind of place the infants the association sought to help usually came from. Then she saw the certificates on the wall and understood the extravagant furnishings: HRH Princess Alice, Princess Victor Napoléon and Reginald Nicholson MP were among its patrons, as well as the founder and executive director, Miss Clara Andrew.

Then Alice noticed the two anxious-looking couples eyeing her from the sofas, and she quickly approached the reception and introduced herself as Mrs. Cotton.

“I’m afraid you need an appointment to see Miss Swift,” the plain-faced receptionist explained.

“I’m happy to sit and wait.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not permitted.”

“I really don’t mind how long it takes.”

“We work on an appointment system, and there are no appointments available for the next two weeks,” the receptionist said, sounding exasperated.

“But what if Miss Swift finishes early. Can’t she squeeze me in?”

“Look, I’m sorry, but we can’t help you”—the volume and pitch of the receptionist’s voice rose—“I really don’t know how many times I have to explain!”

Alice tried to reassure her that she really didn’t mind waiting, when an interior door opened and a young couple filed out, followed by a well-dressed older woman, presumably Miss Swift. She said good-bye to the couple before turning her attention to the flustered receptionist. “Whatever is the matter, Julia?”

“This lady . . . Mrs. Cotton—she won’t take no for an answer.”

“I’m Miss Swift,” she said matter-of-factly to Alice. “How can I help you?”

Alice had worn the only other of her dresses that fit her and swept her hair into a respectable chignon, yet she knew she didn’t look anywhere near as suitable as the other women in the room. “I need to speak with you, but your receptionist says there are no appointments for two weeks.”