est
nothing. I must learn by association to judge from them of distance, of
place, and of the actions or the surroundings which are the usual
occasions for them, just as I am told people judge from colour, light,
and sound.

From exhalations I learn much about people. I often know the work they
are engaged in. The odours of wood, iron, paint, and drugs cling to the
garments of those that work in them. Thus I can distinguish the
carpenter from the ironworker, the artist from the mason or the chemist.
When a person passes quickly from one place to another I get a scent
impression of where he has been--the kitchen, the garden, or the
sick-room. I gain pleasurable ideas of freshness and good taste from the
odours of soap, toilet water, clean garments, woollen and silk stuffs,
and gloves.

I have not, indeed, the all-knowing scent of the hound or the wild
animal. None but the halt and the blind need fear my skill in pursuit;
for there are other things besides water, stale trails, confusing cross
tracks to put me at fault. Nevertheless, human odours are as varied and
capable of recognition as hands and faces. The dear odours of those I
love are so definite, so unmistakable, that nothing can quite obliterate
them. If many years should elapse before I saw an intimate friend again,
I think I should recognize his odour instantly in the heart of Africa,
as promptly as would my brother that barks.

Once, long ago, in a crowded railway station, a lady kissed me as she
hurried by. I had not touched even her dress. But she left a scent with
her kiss which gave me a glimpse of her. The years are many since she
kissed me. Yet her odour is fresh in my memory.

It is difficult to put into words the thing itself, the elusive
person-odour. There seems to be no adequate vocabulary of smells, and I
must fall back on approximate phrase and metaphor.

Some people have a vague, unsubstantial odour that floats about, mocking
every effort to identify it. It is the will-o'-the-wisp of my olfactive
experience. Sometimes I meet one who lacks a distinctive person-scent,
and I seldom find such a one lively or entertaining. On the other hand,
one who has a pungent odour often possesses great vitality, energy, and
vigour of mind.

Masculine exhalations are as a rule stronger, more vivid, more widely
differentiated than those of women. In the odour of young men there is
something elemental, as of fire, storm, and salt sea. It pulsates with
buoyanc