"I wonder what is his idea of a gift," I mused. "'A little token of his regard for me.' Is it more likely to be a baby rattlesnake, or a tear gas bomb?"
"Open it and see," Grant suggested, brushing back his brown hair with his thin fingers.
I tore the wrappings off the package gingerly, perched on the edge of my chair ready to throw the whole thing away quickly if necessary. I held a small, innocuous-looking box in my hand. Slowly, carefully, I opened the box.
Inside was the silver figure of a nude man, about four inches high, standing on tiptoe with his arms upraised. On the tips of his fingers was a balloon, with which he was, apparently, supposed to be playing.
"H'm," I said, "Rather immodest, and I don't know what it's for--an ornament, maybe--but I guess I didn't have to be so nervous about opening it."
Grant, with his quick perception, had figured out exactly what the thing was for before I had even completely made up my mind that it was harmless.
"It's an atomizer," he said. "The balloon is the bulb. It smells like there's perfume in it right now. Squeeze the bulb and see."
I squeezed the bulb, and we were sprayed with fragrance.
I stood the little silver man on top of the bookcase. He's there right now, the object of the admiration and titters of those who visit us. His silvery body still gleams brightly, he is as merrily nude as ever, and a little pressure on the balloon he is playing with still brings forth a gentle squirt of perfume--but where the perfume squirts from, I refuse to say.