"Haven't seen her yet," Fillmore grinned. "Just mental images, and you know how girls are when they project their own images. But she's a mental pippin: seven feet eight or nine with a shape you dream about. Must weigh about eighty-two or three pounds."
"Too fat," the bald man grunted. "I never liked the short and fat type. Have you paid for her yet?"
"Not yet, but I've got the cash and I'll get a discount."
"How much?"
"Dollar sixty-nine less three per cent."
"Good Lord!" The bald man leaned forward, aghast. "For that price she must be a pippin. Why, you can buy two hundred average women for that and the market's glutted with them. How old is she?"
"Hundred and nine."
"Oh! That explains it. You're practically getting her right out of the cradle and can teach her whatever you want her to know and see that she doesn't learn anything else. Has she got any mental quirks?"
Fillmore sighed. "She's almost perfect in that respect. Doesn't have to have her mind erased but once every six weeks. Nine power intelligence but she holds it back. That way she doesn't come anywhere near a nervous breakdown oftener than once in six weeks."
"Domestic type?"