"Well, of all the nasty...."
"Sh!" says nurse, pointing to the children, all eyes and ears.
So that is all you can remember about the housemaid and Mr. Hoggenheimer. But you remember him—a little dark man who sent you books you could not read at Christmas, and brought you enchanting gingerbreads covered with hundreds and thousands. You thought him rather funny, but you liked him, and if he wanted to smoke in bed why not? You liked toys in bed yourself, and you would have taken the dog there if only it had been allowed. Then you come back again to the present hour, nearly all the years of your life later, and you are in a railway carriage with six German householders who, like Mr. Hoggenheimer, want cigars in and out of season.
"To-morrow," you say to your Englishman; "to-morrow I shall travel in a Nichtraucher."
"But then I can't smoke," he says quite truly.
"We shall not travel together."
"But that is so unsociable."
"I would rather be unsociable than suffocated," you explain. "I have suffered tortures to-day."
"Have you? But you always say you don't mind smoke."
"In reason. Seven cigars and one woman are not reasonable. Never again will I travel with seven cigars."