So began those nine years of uninterrupted tranquillity. They were characterized by an extraordinary want of any communicativeness on the part of the Ashburnhams to which we， on our part， replied by leaving out quite as extraordinarily， and nearly as completely， the personal note. Indeed， you may take it that what characterized our relationship was an atmosphere of taking everything for granted. The given proposition was， that we were all "good people." We took for granted that we all liked beef underdone but not too underdone； that both men preferred a good liqueur brandy after lunch； that both women drank a very light Rhine wine qualified with Fachingen water--that sort of thing. It was also taken for granted that we were both sufficiently well off to afford anything that we could reasonably want in the way of amusements fitting to our station--that we could take motor cars and carriages by the day； that we could give each other dinners and dine our friends and we could indulge if we liked in economy. Thus， Florence was in the habit of having the Daily Telegraph sent to her every day from London. She was always an Anglo-maniac， was Florence； the Paris edition of the New York Herald was always good enough for me. But when we discovered that the Ashburnhams' copy of the London paper followed them from England， Leonora and Florence decided between them to suppress one subscription one year and the other the next. Similarly it was the habit of the Grand Duke of Nassau Schwerin， who came yearly to the baths， to dine once with about eighteen families of regular Kur guests. In return he would give a dinner of all the eighteen at once. And， since these dinners were rather expensive (you had to take the Grand Duke and a good many of his suite and any members of the diplomatic bodies that might be there)--Florence and Leonora， putting their heads together， didn't see why we shouldn't give the Grand Duke his dinner together.
And so we did. I don't suppose the Serenity minded that economy， or even noticed it. At any rate， our joint dinner to the Royal Personage gradually assumed the aspect of a yearly function.
Indeed， it grew larger and larger， until it became a sort of closing function for the season， at any rate as far as we were concerned. Idon't in the least mean to say that we were the sort of persons who aspired to mix "with royalty." We didn't； we hadn't any claims； we were just "good people." But the Grand Duke was a pleasant， affable sort of royalty， like the late King Edward VII， and it was pleasant to hear him talk about the races and， very occasionally， as a bonne bouche， about his nephew， the Emperor； or to have him pause for a moment in his walk to ask after the progress of our cures or to be benignantly interested in the amount of money we had put on Lel？ffel's hunter for the Frankfurt Welter Stakes.
But upon my word， I don't know how we put in our time. How does one put in one's time？ How is it possible to have achieved nine years and to have nothing whatever to show for it？ Nothing whatever， you understand. Not so much as a bone penholder， carved to resemble a chessman and with a hole in the top through which you could see four views of Nauheim. And， as for experience， as for knowledge of one's fellow beings--nothing either. Upon my word， I couldn't tell you offhand whether the lady who sold the so expensive violets at the bottom of the road that leads to the station， was cheating me or no； I can't say whether the porter who carried our traps across the station at Leghorn was a thief or no when he said that the regular tariff was a lira a parcel.
The instances of honesty that one comes across in this world are just as amazing as the instances of dishonesty. After forty-five years of mixing with one's kind， one ought to have acquired the habit of being able to know something about one's fellow beings.
But one doesn't.
I think the modern civilized habit--the modern English habit of taking every one for granted--is a good deal to blame for this. Ihave observed this matter long enough to know the queer， subtle thing that it is； to know how the faculty， for what it is worth， never lets you down.
Mind， I am not saying that this is not the most desirable type of life in the world； that it is not an almost unreasonably high standard.
For it is really nauseating， when you detest it， to have to eat every day several slices of thin， tepid， pink india rubber， and it is disagreeable to have to drink brandy when you would prefer to be cheered up by warm， sweet Kümmel. And it is nasty to have to take a cold bath in the morning when what you want is really a hot one at night. And it stirs a little of the faith of your fathers that is deep down within you to have to have it taken for granted that you are an Episcopalian when really you are an old-fashioned Philadelphia Quaker.
But these things have to be done； it is the cock that the whole of this society owes to ？sculapius.
And the odd， queer thing is that the whole collection of rules applies to anybody--to the anybodies that you meet in hotels， in railway trains， to a less degree， perhaps， in steamers， but even， in the end， upon steamers. You meet a man or a woman and， from tiny and intimate sounds， from the slightest of movements， you know at once whether you are concerned with good people or with those who won't do. You know， this is to say， whether they will go rigidly through with the whole programme from the underdone beef to the Anglicanism. It won't matter whether they be short or tall； whether the voice squeak like a marionette or rumble like a town bull's； it won't matter whether they are Germans， Austrians， French， Spanish， or even Brazilians-- they will be the Germans or Brazilians who take a cold bath every morning and who move， roughly speaking， in diplomatic circles.
But the inconvenient--well， hang it all， I will say it--the damnable nuisance of the whole thing is， that with all the taking for granted， you never really get an inch deeper than the things I have catalogued.
