She had it made at a perfumer's in the faubourg
St. Honore by mixing in a certain proportion several of the
heaviest and most clinging of the familiar perfumes.
"You don't like my perfume?" she said to Brent one day.
He was in the library, was inspecting her _selections_ of
books. Instead of answering her question, he said:
"How did you find out so much about books? How did you find
time to read so many?"
"One always finds time for what one likes."
"Not always," said he. "I had a hard stretch once--just after
I struck New York. I was a waiter for two months. Working
people don't find time for reading--and such things."
"That was one reason why I gave up work," said she.
"That--and the dirt--and the poor wages--and the
hopelessness--and a few other reasons," said he.
"Why don't you like the perfume I use?"
"Why do you say that?"
"You made a queer face as you came into the drawing-room."
"Do _you_ like it?"
"What a queer question!" she said. "No other man would have
asked it."
"The obvious," said he, shrugging his shoulders.
"I couldn't help knowing you didn't like it."
"Then why should I use it?"
His glance drifted slowly away from hers. He lit a cigarette
with much attention to detail.
"Why should I use perfume I don't like?" persisted she.
"What's the use of going into that?" said he.
"But I do like it--in a way," she went on after a pause.
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