In each there was the same intelligent, wide brow, the same straight nose with sensitively cut nostrils--though a smaller and daintier affair in the feminine edition, and barred across the top by a little string of golden freckles--and, above all, the same determined, pointed chin with the contradictory cleft in it that charmed away its obstinacy. But here the likeness ended. It was from someone other than the dark-browed man with his dreaming, poet’s eyes--which were neither purple nor grey, but a mixture of the two--that Jean Peterson had inherited her beech-leaf brown hair, tinged with warm red where the light glinted on it, and her vivid hazel eyes--eyes that were sometimes golden like the heart of a topaz and sometimes clear and still and brown like the waters of some quiet pool cradled among the rocks of a moorland stream. They were like that now--clear and wide-open, with a certain pensive, half-humorous questioning in them. “Well?” she said, at last breaking the long silence. “What is it?” The man looked across at her, smiling a little. “Why should it be--anything?” he demanded. She laughed amusedly. “Oh, Glyn dear”--she never made use of the conventional address of “father.” Glyn Peterson would have disliked it intensely if she had--“Oh, Glyn dear, I haven’t been your daughter for the last twenty years without learning to divine when you are cudgelling your brains as to the prettiest method of introducing a disagreeable topic.” Peterson grinned a little. He tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire and lit a fresh one before replying. “On this occasion,” he observed at last, slowly, “the topic is not necessarily a disagreeable one. Jean”--his quizzical glance raked her face suddenly--“how would you like to go to England?” “To England?” Her tone held the same incredulous excitement that anyone unexpectedly invited to week-end at El Dorado might be expected to evince. “_England!_ Glyn, do you really mean to take me there at last?” “You’d like to go then?” A keen observer might have noticed a shade of relief pass over Peterson’s face. “Like it? It’s the one thing above all others that I’ve longed for. It seems so ridiculous to be an Englishwoman and yet never once to have set foot in England.” The man’s eyes clouded. “You’re not--entirely--English,” he said in a low voice. Jean knew from what memory the quick correction sprang. Her mother, the beautiful opera singer who had been the one romance of Glyn Peterson’s life, had been of French extraction. “I know,” she returned soberly. “Yet I think I’m mostly conscious of being English. I believe it’s just the very fact that I know Paris--Rome--Vienna--so well, and nothing at all about England, that makes me feel more absolutely English than anything else.” A spark of amusement lit itself in Peterson’s eyes. “How truly feminine!” he commented drily. Jean nodded. “I’m afraid it’s rather illogical of me.” Her father blew a thin stream of smoke into the air.