had hardly seen a
flower for thirty years, and could not determine whether the odour was
that of mignonette, or honeysuckle, or violet. But at that moment the
cheques were called for; he handed them to his superior, and with cool
hand and clear brain continued to make entries in the ledger until the
bank closed.

But that night, just an he was falling asleep, a remembrance of the
insinuating perfume returned to him. He wondered whose cheque it was,
and regretted not having looked at the signature, and many times during
the succeeding weeks he paused as he was making entries in the ledger
to think if the haunting perfume were rose, lavender, or mignonette. It
was not the scent of rose, he was sure of that. And a vague swaying of
hope began. Dreams that had died or had never been born floated up like
things from the depths of the sea, and many old things that he had
dreamed about or had never dreamed at all drifted about. Out of the
depths of life a hope that he had never known, or that the severe rule
of his daily life had checked long ago, began its struggle for life;
and when the same sweet odour came again--he knew now it was the scent
of heliotrope--his heart was lifted and he was overcome in a sweet
possessive trouble. He sought for the cheque amid the bundle of cheques
and, finding it, he pressed the paper to his face. The cheque was
written in a thin, feminine handwriting, and was signed "Henrietta
Brown," and the name and handwriting were pregnant with occult
significances in Dempsey's disturbed mind. His hand paused amid the
entries, and he grew suddenly aware of some dim, shadowy form, gracile
and sweet-smelling as the spring-moist shadow of wandering cloud,
emanation of earth, or woman herself? Dempsey pondered, and his
absent-mindedness was noticed, and occasioned comment among the clerks.

For the first time in his life he was glad when the office hours were
over. He wanted to be alone, he wanted to think, he felt he must
abandon himself to the new influence that he had so suddenly and
unexpectedly entered his life. Henrietta Brown! the name persisted in
his mind like a half-forgotten, half-remembered tune; and in his
efforts to realise her beauty he stopped before the photographic
displays in the shop windows; but none of the famous or the infamous
celebrities there helped him in the least. He could only realise
Henrietta Brown by turning his thoughts from without and seeking the
intimate sense of her per