"But isn't it clear? I sell happiness. And you told me what kind of happiness you want. Since, as I have indicated, you have already made payment, it only remains for me to grant your wish and—"
"Then why were you laughing at me?"
"Dear lady! Because you thought your request would be so peculiar. Don't you realize, it isn't peculiar at all. It is the request of most young housewives. They are bored, they are fairly shriveling up with the hot desert blast of routine. They want change, adventure, intrigue, romance. They want to attract these things. Precisely as you want."
"Then—"
"Then, you may consider it a sale. Here...."
And as the peddler reached into his enormous suitcase, the obscuring haze vanished abruptly. With an eager little cry, Mary-Jean glanced over his shoulder—and saw nothing but row and row of small white bottles, like bottles of hand cream.
"But—" she began.
"Eh, dear lady? Oh, I see. Naturally, naturally you expected something far more exotic than a kind of lotion. Well, didn't you?"
"I—I guess I did."