Energy books

At that very instant, R. Schmidt opened his eyes. It must have been a
kindly poke by the god of sleep that aroused him so opportunely, but
even so, the toe of a shoe could not have created a graver
catastrophe than that which immediately befell him. He completely
lost his head. If one had suddenly asked what had become of it, he
couldn't have told, not for the life of him. For that matter, he
couldn't have put his finger, so to speak, on any part of his person
and proclaimed with confidence that it belonged to R. Schmidt of
Vienna. He was looking directly up into a pair of dark, startled
eyes, in which there was a very pretty confusion and a far from
impervious blink.
"I beg your pardon," said the older woman, without the faintest trace
of embarrassment,--indeed, with some asperity,--"I think you are
occupying one of our chairs."
He scrambled out of the steamer rug and came to his feet, blushing to
the roots of his hair.
"I beg your pardon," he stammered, and found his awkwardness rewarded
by an extremely sweet smile--in the eyes of the one he addressed.


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