There were three of us in the smoke-room of the _Alexandra_--a very good
friend of mine, myself, and, in the opposite corner, a shy-looking,
unobtrusive man, the editor, as we subsequently learned, of a New York
Sunday paper.
My friend and I were discussing habits, good and bad.
"After the first few months," said my friend, "it is no more effort for a
man to be a saint than to be a sinner; it becomes a mere matter of
habit."
"I know," I interrupted, "it is every whit as easy to spring out of bed
the instant you are called as to say 'All Right,' and turn over for just
another five minutes' snooze, when you have got into the way of it. It
is no more trouble not to swear than to swear, if you make a custom of
it. Toast and water is as delicious as champagne, when you have acquired
the taste for it. Things are also just as easy the other way about. It
is a mere question of making your choice and sticking to it."
He agreed with me.
"Now take these cigars of mine," he said, pushing his open case towards
me.
"Thank you," I replied hurriedly, "I'm not smoking this passage."
"Don't be alarmed," he answered, "I meant merely as an argument. Now one
of these would make you wretched for a week."