Item two: About one grain of Atummion to the pound of lipstick brought out the natural color of a woman's lips and maintained it there even after the lipstick was removed.
Item three: There never was such a shampoo. For once the ad copywriters failed to exceed the merits of their product. Atummion-tinted hair took on a sparkling look, a soft texture and a natural-appearing wave that set beauty-operators screaming for protection.
These beauticians timed their complaint nicely. It got results on the morning that the whole thing began to fall to pieces.
About ten A. M. Jennings called a meeting of all people concerned in the Atummyc Powder project, and they included me as well as the pixie and her brother, the assistant chemist.
Everyone was too flushed with success to take Jennings' opening remark too seriously. "It looks like we've got a winner that's about to lose us our shirts," he said.
He shuffled some papers and found the one he wanted to hit us with first. "The beauticians claim we are dispensing a dangerous drug without prescription. They have brought suits to restrain our use."
Madame Elaine in her mannishly tailored suit was standing by a window staring out. She said, "The beauticians never gave us any break, anyway. Hell with them! What's next?"
Jennings lifted another paper. "I agree, but they sicked the Pure Food and Drug people on us. They tend to concur."
"Let them prove it first," the Old Hag said turning to the pixie's brother. "Eh, Bob!"
"It's harmless!" he protested, but I noticed that the pixie herself, for all her radiance, had a troubled look on her face.