"You see, Hugh, peoples are like people. Each of us has his weak points as well as his strong ones; but we don't necessarily hate each other on that account. You've lived in England, and you know the English rub you up the wrong way. I've lived there, too, and had exactly the same experience. But we go through just that thing with lots of individuals with whom we manage to be very good friends. You and your brother Jack, for instance, don't hit it off so very well; and yet you contrive to be Brokenshires together and uphold the honor of the family." "I'm a Socialist and Jack's a snob--" "That's it. Mentally you're the world apart. But, as you've objects in common to work for, you get along fairly well. Now why shouldn't the Englishman and the American do the same? Why should they always see how much they differ instead of how much they are alike? Why should they always underscore each other's faults when by seeing each other's good points they could benefit not only themselves, but the world? If there was an entente, let us say, between the British Empire and the United States--not exactly an alliance, perhaps, if people are afraid of the word--" He stopped and wheeled round suddenly, suspicion in his small, myosotis-colored eyes. "Look here, little Alix; isn't this the dope that fresh guy Strangways was handing out the other day?" I flushed, but I didn't stammer. "I don't care whether it is or not. Besides, it isn't dope; it's food; it's medicine; it's a remedy for the ills of this poor old civilization. We've got it in our power, we English-speaking peoples--" "You haven't," he declared, coolly. "Your country would still be the goat." "Yes," I agreed, "Canada would still be the goat; but we don't mind that. We're used to it. You'll always have a fling at us on one side and England on the other; but we're like the strong, good-natured boy who doesn't resent kicks and cuffs because he knows he can grow and thrive in spite of them." He put his hand on my arm and spoke in the kindly tone that reminded me of his father. "My dear little girl, you can drop it. It won't go down. Suppose we keep to the sort of thing you can tackle. You see, when you've married me you'll be an American. Then you'll be out of it." I was hurt. I was furious. The expression, too, was getting on my nerves. I began to wish I was out of it. Since I couldn't be in it, marriage might prove a Lethe bath, in which I should forget I had anything to do with it. Sheer desperation made me cry out: "Very well, then, Hugh! If we're to be married, can't we be married quickly? Then I shall have it off my mind." There was not only a woeful decline of spirit in his response, but a full acceptance of the Brokenshire yoke. "We can't be married any quicker than dad says. But I'll talk to him."