There was neither gas nor electricity, nor hot and cold water, nor anything else.
“I suppose the place is rather damp?” I said to the agent. “Is it chilly most of the time? Are the flues defective? Are the floors uneven? Is the place thoroughly uncomfortable and unsanitary and unhabitable in every particular?”
Yes, it had all these advantages. I was about to sign the lease when my wife plucked me by the sleeve in her impulsive American way. “Is there a bathroom?” she asked.
“My dear Mrs. Minever,” said the agent with dignity, “there is not. I can assure you that there are no conveniences of any kind. It is a real English cottage.”
I took the place. It was evening of the third day after we took possession that I discovered that we had been taken in. All the other Americans in that part of England were sitting out in front of their cottages trying to look as if they were accustomed to them, and we—my wife and Uncle Bainbridge and I—were sitting in front of ours trying to act as English as we knew how, when a voice hailed me.
“You are Americans, aren't you, sir?” said the voice.
The voice was anyhow; so we shamefacedly confessed.
“I thought you looked like it,” said the voice, and its owner came wavering toward us through the twilight.
“What makes you think we look like it?” I said, a trifle annoyed; for it had been my delusion that we had got ourselves to looking quite English—English enough, at least, so that no one could tell us in the faint light.
“Our clothes don't fit us, do they?” asked my wife nervously.