"Why, yes," Heck said enthusiastically, surprised that he had admitted it. This was, in a way, Hector Finch's secret. Other men loved big sports cars or fishing or hunting or trips to exotic places. Hector Finch's first love was selling. There was something, he always told himself, soul-satisfying in selling someone a product which, while good in its own right, they didn't really need. Something thrilling and ego-boosting....
"... and you're healthy and young and ought to have a life-expectancy of some fifty-odd years after today. Yes, Heck. You're the man we want."
"I'm sorry," Heck said promptly. "But I like my work with Weatherby, Inc. I couldn't possibly—"
"You have, I believe," said the little man with a smile, "a fiancée in the home office of Weatherby, Inc. By name, Patty O'Conner. Irish and—shall we say, tempestuous?"
"What about Patty?" Heck groaned. He thought he knew what was coming.
"Last night, after the first evening of the convention, you and a blonde named—"
"Never mind her name!" wailed Heck, remembering the evening with delight. "How did you know?"
"I said I've been watching you. Now, unless you want the story of you and the blonde woman—very aesthetically pleasing, by the way—to go directly to Miss O'Conner, you must agree to—"
"Anything," Heck said in despair. He loved Patty O'Conner. He wanted to marry Patty, and would. But they weren't married yet. And Heck was a firm believer in wild oats, the more to make marriage lasting and unsullied. He also knew Patty's violent Irish temper.