ck to an unhappy hour, or to a time of my life
that I hated. There are streets I never walk through, even words I
dread to hear anyone say, because they are connected with some one I
disliked, or a day I would rather not have lived. And it is just the
same with smells. Wood smouldering outside!--and all the country round
is smoky with bush fires. Mimosa in the room--and I can feel the sun
beating down on deserted shafts and the stillness of the bush. Rotting
leaves and the smell of moist earth, and I am a little girl again, in
short dresses, standing by a grave--my father's to which I was driven
in a high buggy, between two men in black coats. I can't remember
crying at all, or even feeling sorry; I only smelt the earth--it was in
the rainy season and there was water in the grave.--But flowers give me
my pleasantest memories. Passion-flowers and periwinkles--you will say
they have no smell, but it's not true. Flat, open passionflowers--red
or white--with purplish-fringed centres, have a honey-smell, and make
me think of long, hot, cloudless days, which seemed to have neither
beginning nor end. And little periwinkles have a cool green smell; for
they grew along an old paling fence, which was shady and sometimes even
damp. And violets? I never really cared for violets; not till ... I
mean ... I never ..."

She had entangled herself, and broke off so abruptly that he moved. He
was afraid this soothing flow of words was going to cease.

"Yes, yes, go on, tell me some more--about violets."

She hastened to recover herself. "They are silly little flowers. Made
to wither in one's dress ... or to be crushed. Unless one could have
them in such masses that they filled the room. But lilac, Maurice,
great sprays and bunches of lilac-white and purple--you know, don't
you, who will always be associated with lilac for me? Do you remember
some of those evenings at the theatre, on the balcony between the acts?
The gallery was so hot, and out there it seemed as if the whole town
were steeped in lilac. Or walking home--those glorious nights--when
some one was so silent ... so moody--do you remember?"

At the peculiar veiled tone that had come into her voice; at this
reminder of a past day of alternate rapture and despair, so different
from the secured happiness of the present; at the thought of this
common memory that had built itself up for them round a flower's scent,
a rush of grateful content overcame Maurice, and, for the first ti