ths. 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. "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. I understand because
I've felt both those things. But love--two equal people united
perfectly, merged into a third person who is neither yet is
both--that