"Yes, Frenchmen have invented symphonic sauces, they say. But again,
eating is a useful art; primarily it serves to nourish the body. When
man was wholly wild--he is a mere barbarian to-day--his sense of smell
guarded him from his foes, from the beasts, from a thousand dangers.
Civilization, with its charming odours of decay,--have you ever ventured
to savour New York?--cast into abeyance the keenest of all the senses.
Little wonder, then, that there was no art of perfume like the arts of
vision and sound. I firmly believe the Hindoos, Egyptians, and the
Chinese knew of such an art. How account for the power of theocracies?
How else credit the tales of the saints who scattered perfumes--St.
Francis de Paul, St. Joseph of Cupertino, Venturini of Bergamo?"

"But," he interrupted, "all this is interesting, fascinating. What I
wish to know is what form your art may take. How marshal odours as
melodies in a symphony, as colours on a canvas?" She made an impatient
gesture.

"And how like an amateur you talk. Melody! When harmony is infinitely
greater in music! Form! When colour is infinitely greater than line! The
most profound music gives only the timbre--melodies are for infantile
people without imagination, who believe in patterns. Tone is the quality
_I_ wish on a canvas, not anxious drawing. So it is with perfumes. I can
blend them into groups of lovely harmony; I can give you single notes of
delicious timbre--in a word, I can evoke an odour symphony which will
transport you. Memory is a supreme factor in this art. Do not forget how
the vaguest scent will carry you back to your youthful dreamland. It is
also the secret of spiritual correspondences--it plays the great rôle of
bridging space between human beings."

"I sniff the air promise-crammed," he gayly misquoted. "But when will