"It
is--it seems to me the odor of myself."
"Yes--it is," he admitted.
She laughed. "Yet you made a wry face."
"I did."
"At the odor?"
"At the odor."
"Do you think I ought to change to another perfume?"
"You know I do not. It's the odor of your soul. It is
different at different times--sometimes inspiringly sweet as
the incense of heaven, as my metaphoric friend Gourdain would
say--sometimes as deadly sweet as the odors of the drugs men
take to drag them to hell--sometimes repulsively sweet, making
one heart sick for pure, clean smell-less air yet without the
courage to seek it. Your perfume is many things, but
always--always strong and tenacious and individual."
A flush had overspread the pallor of her skin; her long dark
lashes hid her eyes.
"You have never been in love," he went on.
"So you told me once before." It was the first time either
had referred to their New York acquaintance.
"You did not believe me then. But you do now?"
"For me there is no such thing as love," replied she. "I
understand affection--I have felt it. I understand passion.
It is a strong force in my life--perhaps the strongest."
"No," said he, quiet but positive.
"Perhaps not," replied she carelessly, and went on, with her
more than manlike candor, and in her manner of saying the most
startling things in the calmest way:
"I understand what is called love--feebleness looking up to
strength or strength pitying feebleness.
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