Miss Davenport with her hysterical appeal, the steamer-chairs, and the starlight, all had fled, and he stood, supporting himself limply by the arm of the chimney-nook in the upholsterer's showroom, staring at Sophia, who stood there, sedate and practical, inviting his attention to a couple of bottle-jacks which an assistant was displaying with an obsequious smile: the transition was rather an abrupt one.
"Oh, I think the brass one is very nice," he stammered, feebly enough.
"Then that settles it," remarked Sophia; "we'll take the japanned one, please," she said to the assistant.
"Aren't you feeling well, Peter dear?" she asked presently, in an undertone. "You look so odd!"
"Quite well," he said; "I—ah!—was thinking of something else for the moment, and you startled me, that's all."
"You had such a far-away expression in your eyes," said Sophia, "and you did jump so when I spoke to you; you should really try to conquer that tendency to let yourself wander, Peter."
"I will, my love," he said; and he meant it, for he had let himself wander farther than he quite intended.