Mary-Jean felt suddenly crestfallen and strangely cheapened. She deserved this. She deserved his laughter. It was a new sales pitch, she had to admit that. The prospective buyer is made to practice self-mortification and then, to rid herself of the only witness of her shame, she buys almost anything. "All right, I fell for it," Mary-Jean said. "What do I have to buy? I'll buy whatever you want. Just get out of here quickly." "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." "Which explains the haze. If you saw the bottles of lotion, you'd never bare your heart to me. If, on the other hand, you saw merely a closed suitcase, it would not intrigue you so much as an opened suitcase, its contents obscured by haze. Correct?" Mary-Jean nodded as the peddler selected with his plump hand a small white jar from the second row. He placed it in Mary-Jean's hand and she felt a strange tingling as contact was made. Her fingers instinctively clutched the jar. "One application," the peddler said, closing his suitcase. "One only: the entire contents of the jar, please." "But where--how--?" "Just apply the balm anyplace on your person. Then you may shower. Then--but then you will see." "Yes, but--but isn't there going to be anything else. I mean, surely you _must_ be selling something." The peddler smiled, showing the broken yellow teeth again. "Dear lady, I have already sold it. May I wish you all the best of luck." He walked with the enormous suitcase to the front door. He opened the door and paused on the threshold. "There is one thing," he said. So here it comes at last, Mary-Jean thought. "I shall return in twenty-four hours to see what your decision is." "My decision?"