"Perhaps the focus isn't quite right," suggested Mr. Paragon. He looked anxiously at Peter. Peter's indifference was unusual.
"It's all right, father, I can see it well. It's a black spot, and it's moving across."
"Wonderful!" said Mr. Paragon. "Think of it, Peter. Jupiter to-night is 60,000,000 miles away. It would easily hold 1300 of us, and it's got five moons. Looks as if it were made for lighting people to bed, don't it?"
"Yes, father," said Peter without interest.
Peter's fancy had suddenly flown to a passage in Romeo and Juliet, hitherto passed as absurd—something about cutting up Romeo into little stars. Peter smelled the wet earth and remembered Miranda. His imagination to-night refused the cold voyage into space. His father's figures, after which his mind had so often adventurously strained, were senseless.
His attention fell suddenly asleep at the telescope.
He realised that his father was asking him whether the transit was finished. He started into watchfulness and replied, still indifferently, that it was.
Mr. Paragon was mortified. He showed Peter the wonders of the universe with a sort of proprietary satisfaction. He was proud of the size of Jupiter. He was personally exalted that the distance between the earth and the moon should be 240,000 miles. He had the pride of a conscientious cicerone; of the native who does the honours of his town. Peter to-night was disappointing.
"Well," said Mr. Paragon desperately, "what do you think of it?"
"It was very clear," Peter dutifully answered.