CHAPTER VI.
Fire and the Foreigner.
They are odd folk, these foreigners.

There are moments of despair when I almost give them up--feel I don't care what becomes of them--feel as if I could let them muddle on in their own way--wash my hands of them, so to speak, and attend exclusively to my own business: we all have our days of feebleness.

They will sit outside a cafe on a freezing night, with an east wind blowing, and play dominoes.

They will stand outside a tramcar, rushing through the icy air at fifteen miles an hour, and refuse to go inside, even to oblige a lady.

Yet in railway carriages, in which you could grill a bloater by the simple process of laying it underneath the seat, they will insist on the window being closed, light cigars to keep their noses warm, and sit with the collars of their fur coats buttoned up around their necks.
In their houses they keep the double windows hermetically sealed for three or four months at a time: and the hot air quivering about the stoves scorches your face if you venture nearer to it than a yard.