"The subject's not one he ever took much interest in, and he's by no means original." Sylvia agreed with him, but she was silent a few moments, reclining in an easy chair before the cheerful fire, while she glanced round the room.

It was comfortably furnished, warm, and brightly lighted; a strong contrast to the lonely Canadian homestead to which her thoughts wandered.

She could recall the unpolished stove, filling the place with its curious, unpleasant smell, and the icy draughts that eddied about it.

She could imagine the swish of driving snow about the quivering wooden building when the dreaded blizzards raged; the strange, oppressive silence when the prairie lay still in the grip of the Arctic frost; and George coming in with half-frozen limbs and snow-dust on his furs, to spend the dreary evening in trying to keep warm.

The picture her memory painted was vivid and it had a disturbing effect.