"I'm afraid she isn't. Is there anything I can do?"
"You're Mr. Coty? I came about the soap." He held up the paper bag.
"Soap?" Mr. Coty said blankly. He was the epitome of mid-aged husband
complete to pipe, carpet slippers and office-slump posture.
"That's right. I'm sure she told you about it. My name's Dickens. Warren
Dickens. I sold her--"
"Look here, you mean to tell me in this day and age you go around from
door to door peddling soap? Great guns, boy, you'd do better on
unemployment insurance. It's permanent now."
Warren Dickens registered distress. "Mr. Coty, could I come in and tell
you about it? If I can make the first delivery to you instead of Mrs.
Coty, shucks, it'll save me coming back."
Coty led him back into the living room, motioned him to a chair and
settled into what was obviously his own favorite, handily placed before
the telly. Coty said tolerantly, "Now then, what's this about selling
soap? What kind of soap? What brand?"
"Oh, it has no name, sir. That's the point."
The other looked at him.
"That's why we can sell it for three cents a cake, instead of
twenty-five." Dickens opened the paper bag and fished out an ordinary
enough looking cake of soap and handed it to the older man.
Mr. Coty took it, stared down at it, turned it over in his hands. He was
still blank. "Well, what's different about it?"
[Illustration]
"There's nothing different about it. It's the same as any other soap."
"I mean, how come you sell it for three cents a cake, and what's the
fact it has no name got to do with it?"
Warren Dickens leaned forward and went into what was obviously a
strictly routine pitch. "Mr. Coty, have you ever considered what you're
buying when they nick you twenty-five cents on your credit card for a
bar of soap in an ultra-market?"