It was the summer of 1923, the summer I came down from Cambridge, when, against my aunt's wishes for me to return to Shropshire, I decided that my future was in the capital and rented a small apartment at 14b Bedford Gardens in Kensington. I now remember that summer as the best of my life. After years surrounded by friends, both at school and at Cambridge, I enjoyed my own company. I enjoyed the parks of London, the quietness in the Reading Room of the British Museum; I let myself wander entire afternoons through the streets of Kensington, making plans for the future, stopping every now and then to admire the fact that here in England, even in the middle of a big city, you would find climbing plants and ivy embracing the facades of the magnificent houses.
On one such leisurely walk, I met, completely by chance, an old school friend, James Osborne, and as soon as I discovered he was a neighbor, I invited him to visit me when he passed by my area again. Although up to that moment I had not received a single visitor in my place, I uttered the invitation confidently, as I had chosen my residence with great care. The rent was not high, but my landlady had furnished it in such a tasteful way that it reminded one of the relaxed Victorian era; the living room, which had plenty of light during the first half of the day, had a worn sofa and two comfortable armchairs, an antique sideboard, and an oak bookcase with battered encyclopedias – all of which I was convinced would win the approval of my visitor.
