It was July 4th, that most American of holidays, and Andrew and Isabelle were in Newport, Rhode Island, at her parents’ 28-room oceanfront mansion (which they called a cottage, apparently without irony). Andrew had spent the day meeting members of the extended family, enjoying his first clambake, sipping champagne and dodging small children armed with firecrackers.

Later, Andrew was snoozing in a beach chair when a loud boom sounded overhead. He jumped up and found himself in the midst of Isabelle’s family members, all of them standing very straight and singing something. It sounded very familiar, thought Andrew. Then he realized — it was his favorite drinking song.

Inspired, Andrew joined in, singing out ‘Long may the Sons of Anacreon entwine the Myrtle of Venus with Bacchus’ vine’ in a strong, clear tenor. ‘The yellow-haired god and his nine fusty maids from Helicon’s banks will incontinent flee,’ he continued, until Isabelle cut him off with an elbow in the side.

At this point it dawned on Andrew that, lyrically, he and his new American friends were not on the same page. He was singing of strong drink and loose women, while they were praising a broadly striped and brightly starred banner waving amid the rockets’ red glare. A glare now reflected in the chorus of faces pointed in Andrew’s direction.

There was an awkward silence. Then Andrew grabbed a bottle of champagne, raised it aloft and cried, “God save … the President!” With a rousing cheer, Isabelle’s family returned the toast, lifting their glasses and calling out, “God save the President!” as the last of the fireworks exploded overhead.