The streets of London are as lonely and as quiet as the road to Oyster Bay while the Oyster is in South America.

It's about as mild here as with you in October and as damp as Sheepshead's Bay in an autumn storm.

But such people as you meet complain of the c-o-l-d--the c-o-l-d; and they run into their heatless houses and put on extra waistcoats and furs and throw shawls over their knees and curse Lloyd George and enjoy themselves.

They are a great people--even without mint juleps in summer or eggnog in winter; and I like them.
The old gouty Lords curse the Americans for the decline of drinking.

And you can't live among them without laughing yourself to death and admiring them, too.