I do envy these Europeans the comfort they take.  When the work of the day is done, they forget it.  Some of them go, with wife and children, to a beer hall and sit quietly and genteelly drinking a mug or two of ale and listening to music; others walk the streets, others drive in the avenues; others assemble in the great ornamental squares in the early evening to enjoy the sight and the fragrance of flowers and to hear the military bands play—­no European city being without its fine military music at eventide; and yet others of the populace sit in the open air in front of the refreshment houses and eat ices and drink mild beverages that could not harm a child.  They go to bed moderately early, and sleep well.  They are always quiet, always orderly, always cheerful, comfortable, and appreciative of life and its manifold blessings.  One never sees a drunken man among them.  The change that has come over our little party is surprising.  Day by day we lose some of our restlessness and absorb some of the spirit of quietude and ease that is in the tranquil atmosphere about us and in the demeanor of the people.  We grow wise apace.  We begin to comprehend what life is for.

We have had a bath in Milan, in a public bath-house.  They were going to put all three of us in one bath-tub, but we objected.  Each of us had an Italian farm on his back.  We could have felt affluent if we had been officially surveyed and fenced in.  We chose to have three bathtubs, and large ones—­tubs suited to the dignity of aristocrats who had real estate, and brought it with them.  After we were stripped and had taken the first chilly dash, we discovered that haunting atrocity that has embittered our lives in so many cities and villages of Italy and France —­there was no soap.  I called.  A woman answered, and I barely had time to throw myself against the door—­she would have been in, in another second.  I said: 

“Beware, woman!  Go away from here—­go away, now, or it will be the worse for you.  I am an unprotected male, but I will preserve my honor at the peril of my life!”

These words must have frightened her, for she skurried away very fast.

Dan’s voice rose on the air: 

“Oh, bring some soap, why don’t you!”

The reply was Italian.  Dan resumed: 

“Soap, you know—­soap.  That is what I want—­soap.  S-o-a-p, soap; s-o-p-e, soap; s-o-u-p, soap.  Hurry up!  I don’t know how you Irish spell it, but I want it.  Spell it to suit yourself, but fetch it.  I’m freezing.”

I heard the doctor say impressively: 

“Dan, how often have we told you that these foreigners cannot understand English?  Why will you not depend upon us?  Why will you not tell us what you want, and let us ask for it in the language of the country?  It would save us a great deal of the humiliation your reprehensible ignorance causes us.  I will address this person in his mother tongue:  ’Here, cospetto! corpo di Bacco!  Sacramento!  Solferino!—­Soap, you son of a gun!’ Dan, if you would let us talk for you, you would never expose your ignorant vulgarity.”