Kit thought Alison blushed, but she turned her head.
Alison brewed some coffee and Kit carried the pot to a second-class car. A porter fixed a board for a table, and Alison, unpacking a basket, began to cut sandwiches. Kit, until she stopped him, extravagantly opened packets and cans. They had agreed to share expenses, and Alison found that Canadian fruit and canned goods were cheaper than she had thought. Kit said nothing, for he had flagrantly cheated.
Lunch was a cheerful function. The coffee was good and all Alison put on the tin plates was appetizing. Kit felt the meal was not a picnic; it was a feast. Then, although dust and locomotive cinders blew about, Alison’s clothes were not stained, and her hair was smooth and bright. In the hot and dusty car, she looked strangely fresh and clean.
When the meal was over she carried off the plates and repacked the basket. Nothing was left about. Kit noted her fastidious neatness, and admitted that their housekeeping was marked by an intriguing charm. It was not altogether because he liked to lunch with an attractive girl; Alison gave the meal a friendly, homelike touch he had not known at Netherhall. Yet she was not a sentimentalist. Only when she sang about the Old Country had he thought her romantic. She was frank and cool and, so to speak, capable.
The train followed the river. Dark pines, zigzag fences, wooden farmsteads and silo towers rolled by the windows. One saw shining water, and in the distance faint blue hills. Sometimes Kit studied a newspaper and Alison sewed. Sometimes they talked and watched the landscape speed by.
“Does the Canadian news interest you?” Alison inquired.
“The advertisements interest me, but so far nothing’s doing,” Kit replied. “Somebody wants a man for a drygoods store and another who can sell patent medicines is required. Well, I cannot. Perhaps it’s strange, but, as a rule, men who make things can’t persuade folks to buy. Nobody wants a minstrel. Gramophones and electric organs have knocked us out. If I were rich, I’d have bought the organ at the Montreal restaurant and wheeled it to the St. Lawrence in order to see it splash.”
Alison smiled. She liked Kit’s humor, but sometimes she thought he did not altogether joke.
“Until you’re famous, I expect music doesn’t pay. Haven’t you another occupation?”
“One doesn’t start by being famous, but until you are famous you’re not allowed to start. The critics are not logical,” said Kit. “Well, perhaps I do know something about machine tools, and if the railroads are building bridges and water-tanks, I might get a job. The Carsons’ business is to hammer iron. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn up the commercial news.”