"Of course you get it! Jeanne Peterson reads _Cosmopolite_ to while away her lonely hours. Jeanne smokes _Dromedaries_, relaxes in her bathtub with _Luroscent_, dreams of her lover on the moon on a _Softafoam_ pillow, writes him letters and saves them for his return by using _Perma-blue_ ink, wears a _Furform_ coat to keep her warm while gazing at the crescent moon on chill autumn nights. Get it, honey? Get it?" Jeanne laughed softly. "Talk about your prostitution," she said, half-aloud. "Huh? What say?" Effusive with enthusiasm, Lubrano hardly heard her. "Nothing. Nothing. It's been interesting, Dan." She stood up, led him to the door. "Let me think about it. I've got to think." "Say, wait a minute." Almost, Lubrano seemed indignant. "You looked all hepped up about it, honey--why the quick freeze? If you think you can do this yourself without help from me, you've got another guess coming. I've got the contacts, you've got the name we want to sell. You can't do it alone. A fifty-fifty split, straight down the middle." Mechanically, Jeanne's mind went to work. Also mechanically, she spoke. "Fifty-fifty baloney. You get twenty-five per cent, Mr. Lubrano, and not another penny. You must take me for a yokel." "Forty." "I said twenty-five." "All right. All right. There's still enough in it for me. Twenty-five per cent. Meet me tomorrow morning at my--" "That's _if_ I decide the idea is worthwhile," Jeanne said, pushing him across the door-sill and watching him retreat reluctantly down the walk to the street. * * * * * When Mom and the others asked Jeanne later, she was the picture of co-operation. She told them everything about Mr. Lubrano and his pleasant interview. She told them nothing about Dan and his not-so-fantastic plans. Jeanne excused herself after dinner, her mind seething with proposal and counter-proposal, and went upstairs to her room, but found sleep impossible. Was it fair to Tom, capitalizing on whatever feelings they had for each other? Was it fair to herself? If Lubrano had his way, a glorified Hollywood love would result. Jeanne and Tom would be adopted by the nation as its favorite lovers. Their faces would grace pop-bottles, sipping cola together in an infinite regress of progressively smaller bottles. Their forms would loll on all the beach billboards, proclaiming in the latest, brightest colors that the Man in the Moon and his girl-friend insisted on _Sunburst_ bathing suits. And Jeanne would be waiting with her _Chlorogate_ toothpaste smile for her lover to return from the infinite distances. When he returned, nothing would be left. Commercial love, exploited love, hounded love, a cheap, impossible, publicized and doomed-to-failure marriage, if Tom ever allowed it to go that far.