"Oh, I forgive you, though I don't much like the idea of having told you—even that much."
"What nonsense! You must tell me everything."
"Must I?" She moved closer to his side. "Only I should like you to have a good opinion of me—and—well, to care so much about smell, I'm afraid, is very vulgar."
"Oh, I don't think so."
"Novelists do. They are ready to tell you her hearing was 'most sensitive,' and all about his 'eagle eye,' that nothing escaped, but they are too refined to say nothing escaped the heroine's nose. Your friends the poets, too, have a very low opinion of smell. Of course, if I could always remember to call it 'fragrance,' it would be better, but I don't always mean fragrance."
"No, no," he laughed. "I admit that smell used to be the poor relation of the senses, and was kept decently in the background; but over in France nous avons changé tout cela."
"Oh, well, that's all right, then."
"You aren't going to church?"
"Of course not."
"It's so ugly here. Shall we turn back and go up on the Hill?"