We are getting foreignized rapidly and with facility.  We are getting reconciled to halls and bedchambers with unhomelike stone floors and no carpets—­floors that ring to the tread of one’s heels with a sharpness that is death to sentimental musing.  We are getting used to tidy, noiseless waiters, who glide hither and thither, and hover about your back and your elbows like butterflies, quick to comprehend orders, quick to fill them; thankful for a gratuity without regard to the amount; and always polite—­never otherwise than polite.  That is the strangest curiosity yet—­a really polite hotel waiter who isn’t an idiot.  We are getting used to driving right into the central court of the hotel, in the midst of a fragrant circle of vines and flowers, and in the midst also of parties of gentlemen sitting quietly reading the paper and smoking.  We are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles —­the only kind of ice they have here.  We are getting used to all these things, but we are not getting used to carrying our own soap.  We are sufficiently civilized to carry our own combs and toothbrushes, but this thing of having to ring for soap every time we wash is new to us and not pleasant at all.  We think of it just after we get our heads and faces thoroughly wet or just when we think we have been in the bathtub long enough, and then, of course, an annoying delay follows.  These Marseillaises make Marseillaise hymns and Marseilles vests and Marseilles soap for all the world, but they never sing their hymns or wear their vests or wash with their soap themselves.

We have learned to go through the lingering routine of the table d’hote with patience, with serenity, with satisfaction.  We take soup, then wait a few minutes for the fish; a few minutes more and the plates are changed, and the roast beef comes; another change and we take peas; change again and take lentils; change and take snail patties (I prefer grasshoppers); change and take roast chicken and salad; then strawberry pie and ice cream; then green figs, pears, oranges, green almonds, etc.; finally coffee.  Wine with every course, of course, being in France.  With such a cargo on board, digestion is a slow process, and we must sit long in the cool chambers and smoke—­and read French newspapers, which have a strange fashion of telling a perfectly straight story till you get to the “nub” of it, and then a word drops in that no man can translate, and that story is ruined.  An embankment fell on some Frenchmen yesterday, and the papers are full of it today—­but whether those sufferers were killed, or crippled, or bruised, or only scared is more than I can possibly make out, and yet I would just give anything to know.

We were troubled a little at dinner today by the conduct of an American, who talked very loudly and coarsely and laughed boisterously where all others were so quiet and well behaved.  He ordered wine with a royal flourish and said: