When I was dressed for dinner at six-thirty, I was too loose in some places and too tight in others, and altogether I felt slovenly and ill-conditioned.  However, the people at the table d’ho^te were no better off than I was; they had everybody’s clothes but their own on.  A long stranger recognized his ulster as soon as he saw the tail of it following me in, but nobody claimed my shirt or my drawers, though I described them as well as I was able.  I gave them to the chambermaid that night when I went to bed, and she probably found the owner, for my own things were on a chair outside my door in the morning.

There was a lovable English clergyman who did not get to the table d’ho^te at all.  His breeches had turned up missing, and without any equivalent.  He said he was not more particular than other people, but he had noticed that a clergyman at dinner without any breeches was almost sure to excite remark.