Suppose a salesman knocked at your door and said: "I'm selling happiness—any kind your heart desires. Every shape, size or description—and the price is right." Would you know instantly the thing you wanted above all else? Maybe you'd better think it over in advance. The salesman might turn up any day.
Suddenly the little old man did a curious thing. He smiled at Mary-Jean. Smiled at her through the one-way glass. It could not be, she told herself, a coincidence. He was smiling right at her, smiling eye-to-eye, as it were, although he could not possibly see through the one-way glass. He removed the Tyrolean hat from a round bald dome of a head and executed a little bow. Mary-Jean fought down a crazy impulse to curtsey and instead opened the door with a quick, almost an angry motion. Her heart was pounding.
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