"He attacked my country. I think I could forgive him everything but that." It was an hour after Mr. and Mrs. Brokenshire had left me. I was half crying by this time--that is, half crying in the way one cries from rage, and yet laughing nervously, in flashes, at the same time. From the weakness of sheer excitement I had dropped to one of the steps leading down to the Cliff Walk, while Larry Strangways leaned on the stone post. I had met him there as I was going out and he was coming toward the house. We couldn't but stop to exchange a word, especially with his knowledge of the situation. He took what I had to say with the light, gleaming, non-committal smile which he brought to bear on everything. I was glad of that because it kept him detached. I didn't want him any nearer to me than he was. "Attacked your country? Do you mean England?" "No; Canada. England is my grandmother; but Canada's my mother. He said you all despised her." "Oh no, we don't. He was trying to put something over on you." "Your 'No, we don't' lacks conviction; but I don't mind you. I shouldn't mind him if I hadn't seen so much of it." "So much of what?" "Being looked down upon geographically. Of all the ways of being proud," I declared, indignantly, "that which depends on your merely accidental position with regard to land and water strikes me as the most poor-spirited. I can't imagine any one dragging himself down to it who had another rag of a reason for self-respect. As a matter of fact, I don't believe any one ever does. The people I've heard express themselves on the subject--well, I'll give you an illustration: There was a woman at Gibraltar--a major's wife, a big, red-faced woman. Her name was Arbuthnot--her father was a dean or something--a big, red-faced woman, with one of those screechy, twangy English voices that cut you like a saw--you know there are some--a good many--and they don't know it. Well, she was saying something sneering about Canadians. I was sitting opposite--it was at a dinner-party--and so I leaned across the table and asked her why she didn't like them. She said colonials were such dreadful form. I held her with my eye"--I showed him how--"and made myself small and demure as I said, 'But, dear lady, how clever of you! Who would ever have supposed that you'd know that?' My sister Vic pitched into me about it after we got home. She said the Arbuthnot person didn't understand what I meant--nor any one else at the table, they're so awfully thick-skinned--and that it's better to let them alone. But that's the kind of person who--" He tried to comfort me. "They'll come round in time. One of these days England will see what she owes to her colonists and do them justice."