“What car are you selling?” she asked. “I am TRYING to sell,” I corrected her, “the Blue Bird, six cylinder.”
“I never heard of it,” said Miss Briggs.
“Nor has any one else,” I answered, with truth. “That is one reason why I can't sell it. I arrived here this morning, and,” I added with pathos, “I haven't sold a car yet!”
Miss Briggs raised her beautiful eyebrows skeptically. “Have you tried?” she said.
A brilliant idea came to me. In a side street I had passed a garage where Photaix cars were advertised for hire. I owned a Phoenix, and I thought I saw a way by which, for a happy hour, I might secure the society of Miss Briggs.
“I am an agent and demonstrator for the Phoenix also,” I said glibly; “maybe I could show you one?”
“Show me one?” exclaimed Miss Briggs. “One sees them everywhere! They are always under your feet!”
“I mean,” I explained, “might I take you for a drive in one?”
It was as though I had completely vanished. So far as the lovely Miss Briggs was concerned I had ceased to exist. She turned toward a nice old lady.
“What can I show you, Mrs. Scudder?” she asked cheerily; “and how is that wonderful baby?”