To the untraveled, territory other than their own familiar heath is invariably fascinating.  Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces and delights.  Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood of objects.  Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden from view.  There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite dramatic expression—­“I am going away.”

As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she was without the necessary apparel for traveling.  She quite forgot Hurstwood’s presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and cozy cottages in villages with wondering eyes.  It was an interesting world to her.  Her life had just begun.  She did not feel herself defeated at all.  Neither was she blasted in hope.  The great city held much.  Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom—­who knows?  Perhaps she would be happy.  These thoughts raised her above the level of erring.  She was saved in that she was hopeful.

The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering at the novel atmosphere of the northern city.  Long before, Hurstwood had been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he had stopped.  As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he heard it called anew by a busman.

“We’ll go right up and get rooms,” he said.

At the clerk’s office Hurstwood swung the register about while the clerk came forward.  He was thinking what name he would put down.  With the latter before him he found no time for hesitation.  A name he had seen out of the car window came swiftly to him.  It was pleasing enough.  With an easy hand he wrote, “G.  W. Murdock and wife.”  It was the largest concession to necessity he felt like making.  His initials he could not spare.

When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had secured her a lovely chamber.

“You have a bath there,” said he.  “Now you can clean up when you get ready.”

Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked at himself in the glass.  He felt dusty and unclean.  He had no trunk, no change of linen, not even a hair-brush.

“I’ll ring for soap and towels,” he said, “and send you up a hair-brush.  Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast.  I’ll go for a shave and come back and get you, and then we’ll go out and look for some clothes for you.”

He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.

“All right,” said Carrie.

She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited for the boy, who soon knocked.

“Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water.”

“Yes, sir.”