"Oh, a Canadian! That's neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. It's nothing."
"No, madam, nothing but a point of view."
"What do you mean by that?"
I repeated something of my father's:
"The point of view of the Englishman who understands America or of the American who understands England, as one chooses to put it. The Canadian is the only person who does both."
"Oh, indeed? I'm not a Canadian—and yet I flatter myself I know my England pretty well."
I made so bold as to smile dimly.
"Knowing and understanding are different things, madam, aren't they? The Canadian understands America because he is an American; he understands England because he is an Englishman. It's only of him that that can be said. You're quite right when you label him a point of view rather than a citizen or a subject."
"I didn't label him anything of the kind. I don't know anything about him, and I don't care. What are you besides being a Canadian?"
"Nothing, madam," I said, humbly.