B. said to me as we sat down:

"I'll tell you what's the matter with you, J.--you know too many
languages for this continent. Your linguistic powers will be the
ruin of us if you don't hold them in a bit. You don't know any
Sanscrit or Chaldean, do you?"

I replied that I did not.

"Any Hebrew or Chinese?"

"Not a word."

"Sure?"

"Not so much as a full stop in any of them."

"That's a blessing," said B., much relieved. "You would be trying
to palm off one or other of them on some simple-minded peasant for
German, if you did!"

It is a wearisome journey, through the long, hot hours of the
morning, to Cologne. The carriage is stifling. Railway travellers,
I have always noticed, regard fresh air as poison. They like to
live on the refuse of each other's breath, and close up every window
and ventilator tight. The sun pours down through glass and blind
and scorches our limbs. Our heads and our bodies ache. The dust
and soot drift in and settle on our clothes, and grime our hands and
face. We all doze and wake up with a start, and fall to sleep again