Another man, to whom I did not talk, sticks in my memory.  He had for years and years inspected trains at the head of a heavyish grade in the mountains—­though not half so steep as the Hex[4]—­where all brakes are jammed home, and the cars slither warily for ten miles.  Tire-troubles there would be inconvenient, so he, as the best man, is given the heaviest job—­monotony and responsibility combined.  He did me the honour of wanting to speak to me, but first he inspected his train—­on all fours with a hammer.  By the time he was satisfied of the integrity of the underpinnings it was time for us to go; and all that I got was a friendly wave of the hand—­a master craftsman’s sign, you might call it.

[Footnote 4:  Hex River, South Africa.]

Canada seems full of this class of materialist.

Which reminds me that the other day I saw the Lady herself in the shape of a tall woman of twenty-five or six, waiting for her tram on a street corner.  She wore her almost flaxen-gold hair waved, and parted low on the forehead, beneath a black astrachan toque, with a red enamel maple-leaf hatpin in one side of it.  This was the one touch of colour except the flicker of a buckle on the shoe.  The dark, tailor-made dress had no trinkets or attachments, but fitted perfectly.  She stood for perhaps a minute without any movement, both hands—­right bare, left gloved—­hanging naturally at her sides, the very fingers still, the weight of the superb body carried evenly on both feet, and the profile, which was that of Gudrun or Aslauga, thrown out against a dark stone column.  What struck me most, next to the grave, tranquil eyes, was her slow, unhurried breathing in the hurry about her.  She was evidently a regular fare, for when her tram stopped she smiled at the lucky conductor; and the last I saw of her was a flash of the sun on the red maple-leaf, the full face still lighted by that smile, and her hair very pale gold against the dead black fur.  But the power of the mouth, the wisdom of the brow, the human comprehension of the eyes, and the outstriking vitality of the creature remained.  That is how I would have my country drawn, were I a Canadian—­and hung in Ottawa Parliament House, for the discouragement of prevaricators.

CITIES AND SPACES

What would you do with a magic carpet if one were lent you?  I ask because for a month we had a private car of our very own—­a trifling affair less than seventy foot long and thirty ton weight.  ’You may find her useful,’ said the donor casually, ’to knock about the country.  Hitch on to any train you choose and stop off where you choose.’

So she bore us over the C.P.R. from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back, and when we had no more need of her, vanished like the mango tree after the trick.