“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 themselves on that bathtowel, and there would still have been enough dry territory left for some of the animals—­not the large, woolly animals like the Siberian yak, but the small, slick, porous animals such as the armadillo and the Mexican hairless dog.

So I wedged myself into the tub and had a snug-fitting but most luxurious bath; and when I got back to my room the maid had arrived with the shaving water.  There was a knock at the door, and when I opened it there stood a maid with a lukewarm pint of water in a long-waisted, thin-lipped pewter pitcher.  There was plenty of hot water to be had in the bathroom, with faucets and sinks all handy and convenient, and a person might shave himself there in absolute comfort; but long before the days of pipes and taps an Englishman got his shaving water in a pewter ewer, and he still gets it so.  It is one of the things guaranteed him under Magna Charta and he demands it as a right; but I, being but a benighted foreigner, left mine in the pitcher, and that evening the maid checked me up.

“You didn’t use the shaving water I brought you to-day, sir!” she said.  “It was still in the jug when I came in to tidy up, sir.”

Her tone was grieved; so, after that, to spare her feelings, I used to pour it down the sink.  But if I were doing the trip over again I would drink it for breakfast instead of the coffee the waiter brought me—­the shaving water being warmish and containing, so far as I could tell, no deleterious substances.  And if the bathroom were occupied at the time I would shave myself with the coffee.  I judge it might work up into a thick and durable lather.  It is certainly not adapted for drinking purposes.