But the next moment he set himself seriously to work on his correspondence.
Presently he stopped; once or twice he had been overtaken by a vague undefinable sense of pleasure, even to the dreamy halting of his pen.
It was a sensation in no way connected with the subject of his correspondence, or even his previous reflections--it was partly physical, and yet it was in some sense suggestive.

It must be the intoxicating effect of the woodland air.

He even fancied he had noticed it before, at the same hour when the sun was declining and the fresh odors of the undergrowth were rising.

It certainly was a perfume.

He raised his eyes.