delightful and unmistakable.

From somewhere there came a rich oriental odor. It intoxicated me with its
subtle perfume. I picked up "After-Dinner Stories" (Balzac), then a
translation from Alfred de Musset, an old novel by Wilkie Collins, "The
Guilty River;" but still that mysterious perfume pervaded my senses and
unfitted me for the otherwise tempting feast spread before me. I looked at
the clock; it was nine thirty. I turned again to the table, and carelessly
reached out for a pair of dainty, pale tan-colored gloves. Then I seized
them eagerly and brushed them against my face; I had found the odor. The
gloves were perfumed. They had been worn for the first time to the
reception, and had been thrown there into a plate of costly percelain, to
await her ladyship's pleasure and do further and final service at the
ball. They bore the imprint of her dainty fingers, and they were hardly
cold from the touch and the warmth of her pretty white hands. They
seemed, as they rested there, like something human; and if they had
reached out toward me, or even spoken a word of explanation regarding
their highly perfumed selves, I should indeed have been delighted, but
neither surprised nor dismayed.

But while the gloves did not speak, did not move, something else made mute
appeal. Tossed into that same beautiful plate, hidden at first by the
gloves, was a bunch, a very small bunch of Russian violets. Evidently they
had been worn to the reception, and while I was wondering if she would
wear them to the ball I heard a light step, the rustle of silken skirts,
and I knew that my wait was ended.

She looked resplendent in evening dress, and swept toward me with the
grace, the charm, the ease of a woman of many seasons instead of one
hardly half finished.

"Here are your gloves," I said. She quickly drew them on and made them
fast with almost a single movement.

"And your Russian violets," I added. She looked at them hesitatingly, but
slightly shrugged her shoulders, that were bare and gleamed in the half
glow of lamp and fire like moonlight on silvered meadow, and, turning,
looked up at me and said:

"I am ready at last; pray pardon my long delay."

While we were driving to the ball I asked her about the perfumed gloves
with an odor like sandal-wood or like ottar of roses. She said they had
been sent her from Paris, but they were in all the shops, were pleasant,
but not rare. She said nothing about the violets, nor did I mention th