"The last time I saw you," said Nora, "you were calling poor old England
all sorts of dreadful names. Isn't farming in Canada all your fancy
painted it?"

Gertie paused in the act of pouring water from the kettle into the
dishpan. "Not a bit like it," she said dryly. "He's like most of the
English I've run up against. They think all you've got to do is just to
sit down and have afternoon tea and watch the crops grow by themselves."

"Oh, come now, Gertie. You've never had to accuse me of loafing, and I'm
an Englishman," said her husband good-naturedly.

"I said 'most.'"

"And as for afternoon tea," broke in Hornby, "I don't believe they have
that sacred institution in the whole blessed country."

"You have tea with all your meals. Men out here have something else to
do but sit indoors afternoons and eat between meals."

"Do you know," said Nora after a pause, "it isn't nearly so cold as I
expected to find it. Don't you usually have it much colder than this?"

"It's rarely colder until later in the season. But Frank, here, who's
our champion weather prophet, says it's going to be an exceptional
season with hardly any snow at all."

Nora had been conscious all through the evening that Taylor had hardly
once taken his eyes from her face. She looked directly at him for the
first time, to find him watching her with a look of quiet amusement.