you--you--poison your spirit with the honey of France, of Scandinavia,
of Russia. As for the society of women--"

"The Eternal Womanly!" he sneered.

"The Eternal Simpleton, you mean. In _that_ swamp of pettiness, idiocy,
and materialism, a man of your nature could not long abide. Religion--it
has not yet responded to your need. And without faith your sins lose
their savour. The arts--you don't know them all, the Seven Deadly Arts
and the One Beautiful Art!" She paused. Her voice had been as the sound
of delicate flutes. He was aflame.

"Is there, then, an eighth art?" he quickly asked.

"Would you know it if you saw it?"

"Of course. Where is it, what is it?"

She laughed and took his arm.

"Why did you look at me in church?"

"Because--it was mere chance--no, it may have been the odour of iris. I
am mad over perfume. I think it a neglected art, degraded to the
function of anointment. I have often dreamed of an art by which a
dazzling and novel synthesis of fragrant perfumes would be invented by
some genius, some latter-day Rimmel or Lubin whom we could hail as a
peer of Chopin or Richard Strauss--two composers who have expressed
perfume in tone. Roinard in his Cantiques des Cantiques attempted a
concordance of tone, light, and odours. Yes--it was the iris that