"No segars, tobacco, spirits?"
"No segars, no tobacco."
My spirits were so low that I thought it was useless to mention them.
In France, in spite of this declaration of mine, my luggage would have been turned inside out. The sturdy Briton takes my word [ [1] ] and dismisses my luggage with:
"All right. Take it away."
11 P.M.—I alight at an hotel near the Strand. A porter comes to take my belongings.
"I want a bedroom for the night," I say.
He speaks French. The hotel is French, too, I see.
After a wash and brush-up, I come down to the dining-room for a little supper.