“What’s wrong about the smells?” he inquired mildly.
She laughed. “Garlic, mostly,” she took a delicate sniff, “and paint.”
“Garlic, I admit,” he sniffed in turn, “and paint, and even tar; but they are merely the dominant notes. The overtones give this spot distinction. I’m a connoisseur on smells. It’s a lost art.”
“Thank goodness!”
“Not at all. We have lost the knowledge of odours; therefore a great part of life is lost. Do you notice now the smell of resin?”
“No.”
“They’re unloading resin in sacks from that schooner with the black sails. Think hard for a moment and you’ll get it. It is a delicious scent quite unlike anything else.”
“No,” she tried, “I don’t get it. But I smell oil, horribly.”
“That’s from the tanker,” he pointed. “It should strike your national pride. It’s U.S.A.—Standard Oil.”
“Standard Oil?” she inquired eagerly and shaded her eyes to spell out the name on the side. “So it is! U-m-m!” she sniffed, “that smells good. I own Standard Oil Stock. U-m! Not much, of course—but—u-m!—enough.”