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?"