“A—?” repeated Mrs. Maurier. Mr. Talliaferro’s eyes popped mildly.
“All Americans are constipated,” the florid man continued blithely, “do with a bit of salts in a tumbler of water in the morning. Now, my scheme is—”
“Mr. Talliaferro!” Mrs. Maurier implored. Mr. Talliaferro girded himself anew.
“My dear sir,” he began.
“—is to put the salts up in a tweaky phial, a phial that will look well on one’s night table: a jolly design of some sort. All Americans will buy it. Now, the population of your country is several millions, I fancy; and when you take into consideration the fact that all Americans are con—”
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Talliaferro, louder.
“Eh?” said the florid man, looking at him.
“What kind of a jar will you put ’em in?” asked the nephew, his mind taking fire.
“Some tweaky sort of thing that all Americans will buy—”
“The American flag and a couple of doves holding dollar marks in their bills, and a handle that when you pull it out, it’s a corkscrew,” suggested Fairchild. The florid man glared at him with interest and calculation.
“Or,” the Semitic man suggested, “a small condensed table for calculating interest on one side and a good recipe for beer on the other.” The florid man glared at him with interest.
“That’s just for men,” Mrs. Wiseman said. “How about the women’s trade?”
“A bit of mirror would do for them, don’t you think?” the florid man offered, “surrounded by a design in colors, eh?”
Mrs. Wiseman gave him a murderous glance and the poet added:
“And a formula for preventing conception and a secret place
