To Peter it was desperately familiar. The men's voices every now and then were overborne by Mrs. Smith in one of her perpetual recommendations to Miranda.
"Take your elbows off the sill, Miranda."
"Yes, mother."
Miranda answered with the mechanical obedience of a child who makes allowances.
She turned at the same time into the room, full of the contrast between the beauty of the garden and the two absurd figures in dispute upon the hearthrug. She looked over to Peter in the shadow.
His eyes were full of her, burning with delight.
Miranda, meeting his look, felt suddenly too glad for endurance. She burst from her seat.
Her mother's voice, thin and penetrating, was plainly heard above the ground-bass of political argument.
"Where are you going, Miranda?"
"Into the garden, mother," patiently answered Miranda, and with never a look at Peter she went.