es, if you will permit me to
say, you should have no heed of such things. No, Miss Leroy. You
should content yourself with continuing to be. A woman who does only
that acquires a charm almost supernatural. This was the occupation of
the young goddesses of old Greece. How delightful they were! The rose
was their model. They had learned the secret of its witchery. They
charmed and did nothing. To charm is never easy, but to do nothing is
the most difficult of all things, as it is, too, the most
intellectual. Yes," Orr added after a moment, "it is also a thing
which the rest of us sadly neglect."

"Oh, I say," Loftus threw in. "It is not so long ago that I heard you
maintaining that only imbeciles were idle, that everybody should have
something to do. You are rather contradictory, don't you think?"

"No, not a bit; and for the reason that then I was speaking of the
generality of people, and now of the exceptional few. The idleness of
the imbecile is always imbecilic, but the dreams of a poet have spells
that enthrall. Try to fancy a busy poet. You cannot. It is an anomaly
at which the imagination balks. By the same token you cannot fancy a
useful Venus. You cannot fancy Psyche occupied with anything but love.
Love is--or rather, should be--woman's sole occupation. The perfume of
Eros should be about them all."

"The perfume of Eros!" muttered Annandale, to whom the phrase
appealed. "The perfume of Eros!" he repeated and helped himself to
wine. "I say, Orr, what the dickens is that?"

"Only the motor force of the universe."

"What?"

"Yes, indeed. It is the sublimate of love. And love is the source of
human activity. It has no other. Without it civilization would
retrograde and society return to the woods. Love is the basis of
tragedy, the woof of romance, the incentive of commerce, of crime too,
of heroism as well."

"My!" said Marie, whom the brief deluge of words amazed. "My!"

"I must get that off," Annandale muttered. In the _sotto voce_ of
thought he added, "to Sylvia." Obviously, he had had his fill. He
stood up, making an excuse, imperceptibility lurching as he did so.

It was after ten. Long since coffee had been served. Orr, too, got up.
He thanked his hostess. The other men imitated him. Loftus and Marie
were alone.

Loftus went to a window. Then he turned. "Put on your hat, little
girl, and we will go out; though, after all, I do not see that you
need bother with a hat, unless you prefer."

"I wil