An American journalist in poor health spent the summer of 1910 at a resort in Southern France. The proprietor was an English woman, and all of the other guests were English too. They were friendly and kind to the invalid—all excepting one very austere and haughty lady.
On his first day as a guest at the house he heard this lady say to the landlady:
“I distinctly understood that you did not admit Americans as lodgers here, and I wish to know why you have broken the rule.”
The other woman explained that the stranger had come with good references and that he seemed a quiet, well-mannered person who hadn’t offered to scalp anybody and who knew how to eat with a knife and fork. Nevertheless the complaining matron was not at all pleased.
She took frequent opportunity of saying unkind things about the States and those who lived in the States. The sick American maintained a polite silence. Finally one day at the dinner table she addressed him with direct reference to a certain ghastly murder case which even after the lapse of all these years will be remembered by most readers to-day.
“What do you Yankees think of your fellow-American, Doctor Crippen?” she inquired.
“We think he’s crazy,” said the American.
“How singular!” said the lady, arching her eyebrows.
“Not at all,” said the American. “He must have been crazy to kill an American woman in order to marry an English one.”