“You cannot reason at all,” said Hunsden; “there is no logic in you.”
“Better to be without logic than without feeling,” retorted Frances, who was now passing backwards and forwards from her cupboard to the table, intent, if not on hospitable thoughts, at least on hospitable deeds, for she was laying the cloth, and putting plates, knives and forks thereon.
“Is that a hit at me, mademoiselle? Do you suppose I am without feeling?”
“I suppose you are always interfering with your own feelings, and those of other people, and dogmatizing about the irrationality of this, that, and the other sentiment, and then ordering it to be suppressed because you imagine it to be inconsistent with logic.”
“I do right.”
Frances had stepped out of sight into a sort of little pantry; she soon reappeared.
“You do right? Indeed, no! You are much mistaken if you think so. Just be so good as to let me get to the fire, Mr. Hunsden; I have something to cook.” (An interval occupied in settling a casserole on the fire; then, while she stirred its contents:) “Right! as if it were right to crush any pleasurable sentiment that God has given to man, especially any sentiment that, like patriotism, spreads man’s selfishness in wider circles” (fire stirred, dish put down before it).
“Were you born in Switzerland?”
“I should think so, or else why should I call it my country?”
“And where did you get your English features and figure?”