No woman in Canada, has she but the faintest dash of native
blood in her veins, but loves velvets and silks. As beef to the
Englishman, wine to the Frenchman, fads to the Yankee, so are velvet
and silk to the Indian girl, be she wild as prairie grass, be she on
the borders of civilization, or, having stepped within its boundary,
mounted the steps of culture even under its superficial heights.
"Such a dolling little appil blossom," said the wife of a local
M.P., who brushed up her etiquette and English once a year at
Ottawa. "Does she always laugh so sweetly, and gobble you up with
those great big gray eyes of her, when you are togetheah at home,
Mr. McDonald? If so, I should think youah pooah brothah would feel
himself terrible _de trop_."
He laughed lightly. "Yes, Mrs. Stuart, there are not two of
Christie; she is the same at home and abroad, and as for Joe, he
doesn't mind us a bit; he's no end fond of her."
"I'm very glad he is. I always fancied he did not care for her,
d'you know."
If ever a blunt woman existed it was Mrs. Stuart. She really meant
nothing, but her remark bothered Charlie. He was fond of his
brother, and jealous for Christie's popularity. So that night when
he and Joe were having a pipe, he said:
"I've never asked you yet what you thought of her, Joe.
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