"Called?" Mary-Jean said in some confusion as the rotund peddler brought his enormous suitcase into the living room and unsnapped it on the sofa before Mary-Jean could stop him. There was an iron-clad, if unwritten rule, in Mary-Jean's household: nothing unclean ever visited that sofa. And the little peddler's bag looked as if it had spent time in every sooty waiting room from here to—Shalimar, Kashmir.
"Not five minutes ago, you called," the peddler chirped. "Here I am. Now then, what will it be?" As he spoke, the peddler had arranged the enormous suitcase, now open, like a showcase. For some reason she could not fathom, Mary-Jean felt an unexpected thrill of fear clutch icily at her spine.
"You can show me whatever it is you're selling," Mary-Jean heard herself saying. "But please let's get one thing straight. I didn't call. I didn't send for you. You must be a cold-canvasser. Aren't you?"
The peddler rubbed plump hands together, shaking his head. "We Happiness Salesmen never canvass without being called."
"Hap-happiness salesmen?"
"I—" here the peddler returned the Tyrolean hat rakishly to his bald head—"am a Happiness Salesman."
"But what—exactly what—do you sell? Can I see?" Mary-Jean asked, edging toward the enormous suitcase.
"Specifically?" chirped the peddler.
"I—I can't seem to see anything in your bag. That's strange."