He was friends with all or most of the cats on the Square, the big black
one with the white patch on his chest and green eyes as large around as
shilling pieces, who belonged to the caretaker of the little garden in
Cavendish Square close to the Mews, the two greys who sat unblinking in
the window of No. 5 throughout most of the day, the ginger cat with the
green eyes who belonged to Mrs. Bobbit, the caretaker who lived down in
the basement of No. 11, the tortoiseshell cat with the drooping ear next
door, and the Boie de Rose Persian who slept on a cushion in the window
of No. 27 most of the time, but who was brought into the Square for an
airing on clear warm days.
