"That is perhaps a modest thing to say, Mr. Fenton," she responded,
"but the truth must be--if you'll pardon my saying anything so
personal--that you are very sympathetic."
The artist moved backward a step from his easel, regarding his work
with that half-shutting of the eyes and turning of the head which seems
to be an essential of professional inspection.
"Even so," persisted he, "a sympathetic person is one whose emotions
are fickle enough to give place to whatever others any sudden accident
brings up; and if one's feelings are so transient, how can he be worthy
of confidence?"
"I can't argue with you," Damaris replied, smiling and shaking her
head, "but all the same I don't agree with what you say."
"Oh, I hoped you wouldn't when I said it," Fenton threw back lightly.
He went on with his work, outwardly tranquil, as if he had no thought
beyond the perfect shading of the cheek he was painting; but his mind
was in a tumult. He thought how easy it is to deceive; how constantly,
indeed, we do deceive whether we will or no; how foolish it is to rule
our lives by standards which rest so largely on mere seeming; how--Bah!
Why should he pretend to himself? He was not really concerned with
generalities or great moral principles. He was trying to decide whether
he should worm a secret out of Hubbard to throw as a sop to that vile
cursed cad, Irons, to keep his foul mouth shut about Ninitta.
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