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 up, they let you know they do not expect to come down. The radiators are equally as sullen about radiating. They don't want to at all. English radiators are such toy affairs as to be incapable of any real action. They are so small they get lost behind the furniture. At the Hyde Park Hotel, the clerk and I hunted all over the place: "I'm sure we used to have them," he said. At last our search was rewarded. We found the one that was to keep me warm. It was behind the dresser and such a miniature affair, you'd surely have guessed Santa Claus must have left it for the children at Christmas time.

Some one advised me that English hotels really didn't do steam heat well and the best way to be warm was to go to Brown's, which is famous for its grate fires. The Queen of Holland and the English nobility always stop at Brown's. So I tried Brown's. I bought all the "coals" the management would sell at one time and tipped the maid liberally to start the fire in my room. To maintain the temperature anything above fifty, I had to sit by the grate and keep putting on the coals myself. In the bathroom there was no heat at all. "Oh, yes, there was," the management argued; "didn't the hot water pipe for the bath come right up through the floor?" No, they insisted, there couldn't be any fire in the grate in the bathroom—because there never had been since Brown's began. Why, probably the hotel would burn up with so much heat as that.

So I moved on and on. At last I came in the