Jean’s first generous impulse of pity as she realised this was strangely intermingled with a fleeting disquiet, a subconscious sense of loss. It was only momentary, and not definite enough for her to express in words, even to herself--hardly more than the slightly blank sensation produced upon anyone sitting in the sunshine when a cloud suddenly intervenes and drops a shadow where a moment before there has been warmth and light. An instant later it was overborne by her spontaneous sympathy for the man beside her, and, recognising the rather painful similarity between her father’s treatment of Judith Craig and the story she had heard of the unknown woman’s treatment of Tormarin himself, she tactfully deflected the conversation to something that would touch him less closely, launching into a description of the life her parents had led at Beirnfels. “They were wonderfully happy together there. Not in the least--as I suppose they ought to have been--an awful example of poetic justice!” she declared. “Glyn used to call Beirnfels his ‘House of Dreams-Come-True’.” “Glyn?”--suddenly remarking her use of Peterson’s Christian name. She smiled. “I never called them father and mother. They would have loathed it. Glyn used to say that anything which savoured so much of domesticity would kill romance!” “That sounds like all that I have ever heard about him,” said Tormarin, smiling too. “So does the ‘House of Dreams-Come-True.’ It’s a charming idea.” “He took it from one of Jacqueline’s songs. She had a glorious voice, you know.” “Yes, so I’ve heard. I suppose you have inherited it?” She shook her head. “No, I wish I had. But Jacqueline insisted on trying to teach me singing, all the same. Poor dear! I was a dreadful disappointment to her, I’m afraid.” “Couldn’t you sing the ‘House of Dreams’ song? I’m rather curious to hear the remainder of it.” Jean rose and crossed to the piano. “Oh, yes, I can sing you that. Jacqueline always used to say it was the only thing I sang as if I understood it, and Glyn declared it was because it agreed with my ‘confounded principles’!” She smiled up at him as her fingers slid into the prelude of the song, but her little joke against herself brought no answering smile to his lips. Instead, he stood waiting for the song to begin with an odd kind of expectancy on his face. Jean had most certainly not inherited her mother’s exquisite voice, but she had a quaint little pipe of her own, with a clouded, husky quality in it that was not without its appeal. It lent a wistful charm to the simple words of the song. “It’s a strange road leads to the House of Dreams, To the House of Dreams-Come-True, Its Hills are steep and its valleys deep, And salt with tears the Wayfarers weep, The Wayfarers--I and you. “But there’s sure a way to the House of Dreams, To the House of Dreams-Come-True.