The Fenno furniture, however, presented to such
reasoning the obtuseness of its black-walnut chamferings; and
something in its attitude suggested that its owners would be as
uncompromising. The room showed none of the modern attempts at
palliation, no apologetic draping of facts; and Mrs. Quentin,
provisionally perched on a green-reps Gothic sofa with which it was
clearly impossible to establish any closer relations, concluded
that, had Mrs. Fenno needed another seat of the same size, she would
have set out placidly to match the one on which her visitor now
languished.
To Mrs. Quentin's fancy, Hope Fenno's opinions, presently imparted
in a clear young voice from the opposite angle of the Gothic sofa,
partook of the character of their surroundings. The girl's mind was
like a large light empty place, scantily furnished with a few
massive prejudices, not designed to add to any one's comfort but too
ponderous to be easily moved. Mrs. Quentin's own intelligence, in
which its owner, in an artistically shaded half-light, had so long
moved amid a delicate complexity of sensations, seemed in comparison
suddenly close and crowded; and in taking refuge there from the
glare of the young girl's candor, the older woman found herself
stumbling in an unwonted obscurity. Her uneasiness resolved itself
into a sense of irritation against her listener. Mrs. Quentin knew
that the momentary value of any argument lies in the capacity of the
mind to which it is addressed, and as her shafts of persuasion spent
themselves against Miss Fenno's obduracy, she said to herself that,
since conduct is governed by emotions rather than ideas, the really
strong people are those who mistake their sensations for opinions.
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