powerfully influence our senses.

I would undertake in pitch darkness to recognise every man I know by the
help of my nose alone; that is, if I passed near enough to him to sniff
his atmosphere. I am almost ashamed to confess that men are the same to
me as flowers; I judge them by their smell. I remember once a young
English waiter in a restaurant who stirred all my sensibilities each
time he passed the back of my chair. Luckily Richard was there! For the
same reason I could not endure Herr von Brincken to come near me--and
equally for the same reason Richard had power over my senses.

Every time I bite the stalk of a pansy I recall the neighbourhood of
the young Englishman.

Men ought never to use perfumes. The Creator has provided them. But with
women it is different....

* * * * *

To-day is my birthday. No one here knows it. Besides, what woman would
enjoy celebrating her forty-third birthday? Only Lillie Rothe, I am
sure!...

One day I was talking to a specialist about the thousands of women who
are saved by medical science to linger on and lead a wretched
semi-existence. These women who suffer for years physically and are
oppressed by a melancholy for which there seems to be no special cause.
At last they consult a doctor; enter a nursing home and undergo some
severe operation. Then they resume life as though nothing had happened.
Their surroundings are unchanged; they have to fulfil all the duties of