take some undue liberty of speech with
one of the "highbrows" that so oppressed him. One thing, however, gave
her great comfort: It was that he was careful not to drink too freely.
The "pomp and circumstance" that bored him to extinction had at least
the good effect of restraining him in this respect, and his male-pride
could not but glow pleasantly at the way in which he found his wife
considered. And he was immensely gratified--until one day it occurred to
him that he was being assigned the role of "Mrs. Loring's husband." Then
in a burst of inner resentment he determined to shake himself free of
the singular spell which great names and personages had cast over his
usual spirits, and "be himself." His mood became aggressively American.
"Old Glory" seemed to fill his blood with stars. He had had enough of
doing in Britain as the Britons did. He began to take whiskey-and-soda
between meals, just as in New York. When they dined out, he had a
cocktail at the hotel before leaving. But though Sophy saw this with a
quailing heart, he did not go beyond bounds, as at home, only the return
to customary uses made his spirits soar and rendered him rather
garrulous at times. Still, Loring was no fool. The fount of talk thus
loosened had a certain crude and pungent novelty that diverted the
soberer English very much. He found his new role vastly diverting
himself. He thought it "bully fun" to "poke up the highbrows." But Sophy
writhed, for she saw clearly what did not even glimmer on his
consciousness--the fact that the "highbrows" oftener laughed at than
with him. She tried on one occasion to make him realise this without
offending him. But she need not have troubled as to how he would regard
her suggestion. He took it with lordly superiority.

"Bless you, Goddess! ... you don't know your own little old British
world a bit! 'Laugh at me'? Why not? I mean 'em to. I bust panes in
their old window-sash of conventions and let in God's outer air! I'm the
cyclone-blast from Columbia's fresh and verdant shore! They like it, you
squeamish dear--they like it! I beard the British lion in his den and he
purrs!"

Sophy had said, laughing helplessly:

"I'm afraid that when a lion 'purrs' it's really a sort of growling."

"Never you fear! Just you leave it to me, Old Thing!" Loring had replied
easily.

This bit of slang endearment which he had picked up of late grated on
Sophy, until it was almost impossible for her to keep from flashing