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 put on her clothes. I always think it such a pity that the gods didn't bestow just that one more favour on Englishwomen—the knack of putting on their clothes. It's rather a terrible defect in the race. That's why I'm always real grateful I'm an American by birth. The gods were liberal to us when they doled out this gift, and though they placed us geographically far from Paris, they planted Parisian instincts in our hearts. Of course, I admit that Americans can be real dowdy. The love of guide-books, which the gods gave us in such ample measure too, blunts all the finer instincts, if you don't keep it within due bounds. That's why English, French, and Germans get such wrong impressions of us, since those who have let themselves get under the influence of the guide-book-habit are naturally most in evidence. Now if you give yourself over, body and soul, to the love of guide-books, you get hustled in trying to see too much. And if you're hustled you don't have time to put your clothes on properly, and soon get a sort of scraggy, worried look all round.

That woman who travelled with me had certainly got hustled. She never kept still, and that's disconcerting to any dress. Her luggage fairly blocked the compartment, and even then she seemed anxious lest it might not all be there. It was she who spoke first.

'I guess,' she said, settling herself in the corner seat at last, 'I guess we're mostly Americans on board this car.' I positively jumped with astonishment. I hadn't