In the first place, my tub was warm.

I never saw a house with a brownstone front that was, except in summer, and then the owner cursed it because it was so.

My tub had no plumbing in it to get out of order.
It hadn't any flights of stairs in it that had to be climbed after dinner, or late at night when I came home from the club.

It had no front door with a wandering key-hole calculated to elude the key ninety-nine times out of every hundred efforts to bring the two together and reconcile their differences, in order that their owner may get into his own house late at night.

It wasn't chained down to any particular neighborhood, as are most brownstone fronts.