“Bubbles of Beauty,” recited Scoop, “the wonder soap that makes all women beautiful. Of course,” he added, “to a beautiful woman this soap would be of no more use than a pair of skates would be to an Arab in the Sahara Desert. [[67]]But take a plain woman like—er—Mrs. Townsend——”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pederson quickly.
“And Mrs. Morrisy,” continued Scoop, naming another woman who lived in the neighborhood.
“Yes.”
“Unfortunately,” said Scoop, “they aren’t beautiful. Still, they want to be beautiful. Every woman does, I imagine. So you can imagine how they will welcome our Bubbles of Beauty. But you mustn’t repeat what I am telling you, Mrs. Pederson. Oh, no! For your neighbors would be as mad as hops to have the story get out. They will want to have the source of their sudden beauty kept a secret. Don’t you see?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Pederson.
Scoop again searched his pockets.
“It gets me,” he said, puzzled, “what I did with that extra cake—the one that I was saving for you.” He counted the cakes on the grass. And every time that his finger moved Mrs. Pederson’s eyes moved with it. She had her nose so close to the soap that it was a wonder to me that she kept her balance and didn’t fall forward on her face.
“I was going to let you have a cake,” said Scoop, “but you can see for yourself that I have [[68]]only enough to go around. Of course,” he added quickly, “I realize that you haven’t any use for the soap yourself. It’s only for women who aren’t beautiful. But I thought that you might know of some poor, unfortunate woman who has been homely all her life, with a sallow skin and warts and blemishes and wrinkles and——”
“Yes,” cut in Mrs. Pederson.