“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.
“Thank God for it!” he replied lightly. “It’s the cussed contradictoriness of your sex that makes it so enchanting. If women were logical they would be as obvious and boring as the average man.”
He relapsed into a dreaming silence. Jean broke it rather hesitatingly.
“You’ve never suggested taking me to England before.”