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.  Viewed in this light, Miss Fenno was certainly very strong:  there was an unmistakable ring of finality in the tone with which she declared,

“It’s impossible.”

Mrs. Quentin’s answer veiled the least shade of feminine resentment.  “I told Alan that, where he had failed, there was no chance of my making an impression.”

Hope Fenno laid on her visitor’s an almost reverential hand.  “Dear Mrs. Quentin, it’s the impression you make that confirms the impossibility.”

Mrs. Quentin waited a moment:  she was perfectly aware that, where her feelings were concerned, her sense of humor was not to be relied on.  “Do I make such an odious impression?” she asked at length, with a smile that seemed to give the girl her choice of two meanings.

“You make such a beautiful one!  It’s too beautiful—­it obscures my judgment.”

Mrs. Quentin looked at her thoughtfully.  “Would it be permissible, I wonder, for an older woman to suggest that, at your age, it isn’t always a misfortune to have what one calls one’s judgment temporarily obscured?”

Miss Fenno flushed.  “I try not to judge others—­”

“You judge Alan.”

“Ah, he is not others,” she murmured, with an accent that touched the older woman.

“You judge his mother.”

“I don’t; I don’t!”

Mrs. Quentin pressed her point.  “You judge yourself, then, as you would be in my position—­and your verdict condemns me.”

“How can you think it?  It’s because I appreciate the difference in our point of view that I find it so difficult to defend myself—­”

“Against what?”

“The temptation to imagine that I might be as you are—­feeling as I do.”

Mrs. Quentin rose with a sigh.  “My child, in my day love was less subtle.”  She added, after a moment, “Alan is a perfect son.”