The English landscape had a strange elusive beauty that gripped one hard, and melted as the fleecy clouds rolled by.

When the light came back color and line were as beautiful but not the same.
There was no grass in Canada like the sweep of smooth English turf, and Lister had not thought a house could give the sense of ancient calm one got at Carrock.

Since his boyhood he had not known a home; his resting place had been a shack at a noisy construction camp, a room at a crowded cheap hotel, and a berth beside a steamer's rattling engines.

Then the shining silver on the tea-table was something new; he marked its beauty of line, and the blue and gold and brown pattern on the delicate china he was almost afraid to touch.

In fact, all at Carrock was marked by a strange refinement and quiet charm.
He liked his hosts.