It was an air-tight wood-stove, and it filled the chamber with a heat in which Westover drowsed as soon as he entered it.  He threw himself on the bed, and slept away the fatigue of his railroad journey and the cold of his drive with Jombateeste from the station.  His nap was long, and he woke from it in a pleasant languor, with the dream-clouds still hanging in his brain.  He opened the damper of his stove, and set it roaring again; then he pulled down the upper sash of his window and looked out on a world whose elements of wood and snow and stone he tried to co-ordinate.  There was nothing else in that world but these things, so repellent of one another.  He suffered from the incongruity of the wooden bulk of the hotel, with the white drifts deep about it, and with the granite cliffs of Lion’s Head before it, where the gray crags darkened under the pink afternoon light which was beginning to play upon its crest from the early sunset.  The wind that had seemed to bore through his thick cap and his skull itself, and that had tossed the dry snow like dust against his eyes on his way from the railroad, had now fallen, and an incomparable quiet wrapped the solitude of the hills.  A teasing sense of the impossibility of the scene, as far as his art was concerned, filled him full of a fond despair of rendering its feeling.  He could give its light and color and form in a sufficiently vivid suggestion of the fact, but he could not make that pink flush seem to exhale, like a long breath, upon those rugged shapes; he could not impart that sentiment of delicately, almost of elegance, which he found in the wilderness, while every detail of civilization physically distressed him.  In one place the snow had been dug down to the pine planking of the pathway round the house; and the contact of this woodenness with the frozen ground pierced his nerves and set his teeth on edge like a harsh noise.  When once he saw it he had to make an effort to take his eyes from it, and in a sort unknown to him in summer he perceived the offence of the hotel itself amid the pure and lonely beauty of the winter landscape.  It was a note of intolerable banality, of philistine pretence and vulgar convention, such as Whitwell’s low, unpainted cottage at the foot of the hill did not give, nor the little red school-house, on the other hand, showing through the naked trees.  There should have been really no human habitation visible except a wigwam in the shelter of the pines, here and there; and when he saw Whitwell making his way up the hill-side road, Westover felt that if there must be any human presence it should be some savage clad in skins, instead of the philosopher in his rubber boots and his clothing-store ulster.  He preferred the small, wiry shape of Jombateeste, in his blue woollen cap and his Canadian footgear, as he ran round the corner of the house toward the barn, and left the breath of his pipe in the fine air behind him.