Now, at least, on his bench by the rushing water, he had no more nose-bleeding⁠—that was a thing of the past. Joachim had said from the very first that it was not easy to get acclimatized, and at the time of that earlier visit he was still finding it difficult. But he had made progress; and now, after eleven months, the process must be regarded as finished. More, in that direction, could not be expected. The chemistry of his digestion had adjusted itself, Maria had her ancient relish, his parched mucous membranes having sufficiently recovered to let him savour again the bouquet of that estimable brand of cigars. He still loyally ordered them from Bremen whenever his stock ran low, although the shopwindows of the international resort displayed attractive wares. Maria, he felt, made a sort of bond between him, the exile, and his home in the “flat-land”⁠—a bond more effectual than the postcards he now and then sent to his uncle, the intervals between which grew longer in proportion as he imbibed the more spacious time conceptions prevalent “up here.” He mostly sent picture postcards, as being pleasanter to receive, with charming views of the valley in winter and in summer dress.