be drenched in that wonderful gray color which makes it, scenically
speaking, one of the most fascinating spots on earth; but it was
never downright foggy and never downright cold. English friends
used to speak to me about it. They apologized for good weather
at that season of the year, just as natives of a Florida winter
resort will apologize for bad.

"You know, old dear," they would say, "this is most unusual--most
stroidinary, in fact. It ought to be raw and nasty and foggy at
this time of the year, and here the cursed weather is perfectly
fine--blast it!" You could tell they were grieved about it, and
disappointed too. Anything that is not regular upsets Englishmen
frightfully. Maybe that is why they enforce their laws so rigidly
and obey them so beautifully.

Anyway I woke to find the fog absent, and I rose and prepared to
take my customary cold bath. I am much given to taking a cold
bath in the morning and speaking of it afterward. People who take
a cold bath every day always like to brag about it, whether they
take it or not.

The bathroom adjoined the bedroom, but did not directly connect
with it, being reached by means of a small semi-private hallway.
It was a fine, noble bathroom, white tiled and spotless; and one
side of it was occupied by the longest, narrowest bathtub I ever
saw. Apparently English bathtubs are constructed on the principle
that every Englishman who bathes is nine feet long and about
eighteen inches wide, whereas the approximate contrary is frequently
the case. Draped over a chair was the biggest, widest, softest
bathtowel ever made. Shem, Ham and Japhet could have dried