“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 role of bridging space between human beings.”

“I sniff the air promise-crammed,” he gayly misquoted.  “But when will you rewrite this Apocalypse? and how am I to know whether I shall really enjoy this feast of perfume, if you can simulate the odour of iris as you did an hour ago?”

“I propose to show you an artificial paradise,” she firmly asserted.  In the middle of the room there was a round table, the top inlaid with agate.  On it a large blue bowl stood, and it was empty.  Mrs. Whistler went to a swinging cabinet and took from it a dozen small phials.  “Now for the incantation,” he jokingly said.  In her matter-of-fact manner she placed the bottles on the table, and uncorking them, she poured them slowly into the bowl.  He broke the silence:—­

“Isn’t there any special form of hair-raising invocation that goes with this dangerous operation?”

“Listen to this.”  Her eyes swimming with fire, she intoned:—­

    As I came through the desert thus it was,
    As I came through the desert:  Lo you there,
    That hillock burning with a brazen glare;
    Those myriad dusky flames with points aglow
    Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro;
    A Sabbath of the serpents, heaped pell-mell
    For Devil’s roll-call and some fete in Hell: 
    Yet I strode on austere;
    No hope could have no fear.