be used, and he wondered whether England had new buildings like these.
Sometimes one felt the Western towns were raw and vulgar, but one saw
the bold Canadian genius at its best in Montreal.

After a time he stopped in front of a shop in a short side street.
Indian embroidery work and enameled silver occupied the window, and
although Lister was not an artist he had an eye for line and knew the
things were good. The soft, stained deerskin was cleverly embroidered;
he liked the warm colors of the enamel, and going in was shown a tray of
spoons.

The shop, shut in by high buildings, was dark and smelt of aromatic wood
and leather, but a beam from a window pierced the gloom and sparkled on
the silver. This was emblazoned with the arms of the Provinces; the
Ship, the Wheatsheaves, and the red Maple Leaf. Lister picked up the
articles, and while he did so was vaguely conscious that a girl at the
opposite counter studied him. He, however, did not look up until he had
selected a few of the spoons, and then he started.

The light that touched the girl's face did not illuminate it all. Her
profile was sharp as an old daguerreotype: he saw the flowing line from
brow to chin, drawn with something of austere classic beauty, the arched
lips and the faint indication of a gently-rounded cheek. The rest was in
shadow, and the contrast of light and gloom was like a Rembrandt
picture. Then the enameled spoons rattled as Lister put down the tray.
He knew the picture. When he last saw the girl, her face was lighted
like that by the blaze of a locomotive head-lamp.

"I'll take these things," he said, and crossed the floor.