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What is to be done about it? Shall anything be done about it? The Anglomaniac is helpless before the fact of language. The most he can do is to attack, and uproot if he can, the American tradition. There is nothing sacrosanct in this American tradition. Like all traditions it is stiff, it will clasp, if we allow it, the future in the dead hand of precedent.

But, marvelous to relate, while he had been transformed into an Anglomaniac, Ivan Petrovitch had at the same time become a patriot, at least he called himself a patriot, though he knew Russia little, had not retained a single Russian habit, and expressed himself in Russian rather queerly; in ordinary conversation, his language was spiritless and inanimate and constantly interspersed with Gallicisms.

He seemed entirely imbued by its spirit. But strange to say, while becoming an Anglomaniac, Ivan Petrovich had also become a patriot, at all events he called himself a patriot, although he knew very little about Russia, he had not retained a single Russian habit, and he expressed himself in Russian oddly.

He stood beside it, with his elbow on the mantelpiece, not in front of it with his legs apart, and I thought with a pang how much more graceful the American attitude was. "Have you come back to tell us that we talk through our noses?" he asked. "I don't like being called an Anglomaniac," I replied, dropping my ring from one finger to another.

"I met him while I was with your mother, and I thought it a pity we didn't produce more men like him over here simple, unselfconscious men, contented to be themselves and to do the duty that is nearest them." "Anglomaniac!" Imogen smiled, sugaring her second cup of tea. Mrs. Wake flushed slightly. "Because I see the good qualities of another country?"