“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 will do as you wish, dear.”
Presently they were in Lexington Avenue, a moment more, in Gramercy Park. Loftus, after fumbling for his key, opened one of the little gates. Within was silence. Occasionally, from the pavement without came the sound of footsteps.