She misses the Eaton Square house, of course, and Kate, who had very gifted fingers. But overall, now that she lives in Paris, Irene has found that there is very little about London to miss.
The trees, though.
There are no plane trees in France; she had to leave London to learn that those quiet stalwarts of her composure are a local cultivar, unknown on the continent. The soft, bright greens of the lindens and honey locusts bring her cheer without deep comfort.
There are people to see, whenever she returns. But first, she visits the friends who stand still.