Timbuctooan, for all I care," Loring had replied,
unmoved. "I've always wanted to hunt in the 'Shires. We can have a
country place near Melton...."

"You'd expatriate yourself?" Sophy asked severely.

"Nonsense, Diana! You're too Olympian sometimes. Good Americans can live
all over the place and still feel that 'little old New York is good
enough for them.'"

"There's another thing," Sophy had retorted: "I am sure that I shan't
care for New York--and as ... well, as Mrs. Loring, I should have to
live there...."

"Only a bit in the winter. And it would do you good, Beautiful. You like
homage--you know you do. You'd be first and beautifulest there. Thank
God, I'm so rotten rich!... You'll queen it, I can tell you."

"Are you so rich, Morris?"

"I am--rather. Why?"

"Because that's another thing.... I hate this over-richness of some
Americans. I feel as if my throat and eyes were full of gold-dust when
I'm with them. I don't mean I'm such a goose as to despise money--but I
do hate this ... this sort of golden Elephantiasis that deforms so many
Americans...."

Loring gazed up at her with wondering adoration.

"By George!" he said humbly, "it's downright awe-inspiring to feel that
you don't care a hang for my being rich. That you only care ... what
little you _do_ care ... for me, myself."

"'King Midas has the ears of an ass,'" Sophy had laughed, pulling the
one next her.

He had responded only too quickly to this slight caress. She had to put
both hands to her face to shield herself from his eager kisses.

"Ah, dearest--be kind.... Do.... Ah, do!" he had pleaded. But she had
said, "No.... I shall be sensible--if that's being unkind.... I won't be
rushed into elf-land by the hair of my head. I.... I won't be ...
_honeyfuggled_...."

And they had laughed together.

Sophy finally got quite desperate with the fruitless struggle against
him and against herself. She banished him ruthlessly for two weeks. He
rebelled in vain. "I _must_ have this time quite to myself," she told
him. "I _must_ think things out ... alone."

Loring found himself frantic thus exiled to the Macfarlanes, cut off
from his heart's desire by six country miles as by the powers of
darkness. He fled to Florida for a fortnight's tarpon-fishing. Then came
her letters. He thought he should go mad over those letters. She played
on him like the wind on water. Now he was all melting ripples under her
delicate words--now some phrase sent his pas