fingers like pincers. “Are happy in creation?”
“Mr Divenga thinks it most important that the creative minds in charge of an account should feel thoroughly integrated with the work they are handling,” said Mr Pile plummily. He turned to the gaily dressed dwarf. “That is a consideration we always bear in mind, my dear Mr Divenga. We pondered very seriously the problem of which of our creative minds should handle your account. Mr Anderson already has the whole question of shaving at his – ah – fingertips. He handled another shaving cream account with great success when he was – ah – working with a rival agency some years ago. Isn’t that so, Anderson?”
“Iss goot,” said Mr Divenga before Anderson could assent to this complete untruth. Then be turned menacingly on Mr Pile, and gave his chest several steely prods. “But iss not another shaving cream account. Preparation Number One iss not shaving cream. Shaving iss finished.”
“Finished,” said VV triumphantly, and the others took up the cry. There was a short silence. Were they all thinking as he was, Anderson wondered, of Mr Divenga’s great black beard?
“I’ve been giving your preparation a test, Mr Divenga,” he said. “My chin’s pretty blue normally, but Number One leaves it smooth as silk.”
The little man stepped up close to Anderson, passed a hand over his chin and breathed “Ahh.” He turned to the three directors. “You have felt?” Obligingly VV and Pile touched Anderson’s chin and exclaimed in wonder, although as Pile retreated Anderson seemed to remark a slight frown behind the pince-nez. Mr Divenga turned to Reverton. “You have felt?”
“Don’t need to, Mr Divenga. Tried it myself yesterday morning. Absolutely miraculous.”
“Miraclus, miraclus,” said Mr Divenga. “Always in South Africa are performing miraclus. Have marketed many miraclus – clasp knife changes to tooth drawer, paper flower breathe on and opens, card of pretty girl with clothes on – hold to the light and is pretty girl without clothes on.” The three directors and Anderson laughed heartily, but with a trace of puzzlement, VV became oratorical.
“Engaging toys, Mr Divenga, but this is something different. I assure you, my dear sir, that I believe that we believe – your preparation to be the greatest boon ever brought to twentieth-century man. It is—”
“Iss miraclus,” said Mr Divenga, whose attention seemed to have wandered. “Pleased to meet, Mr Anderson. Shall we go on now?” The directors about-turned.
“Is Number One the final form of your preparation?” Anderson asked. “I ask partly because I think we should impart a slightly different odour from the one it has at present before putting it on the market, and partly because I felt a rather curious sensation when I used it this morning.” Then Anderson made the most awful error of his advertising career. “I don’t know whether you’ve tried it yourself, Mr Divenga–” Three directorial faces looked back at him from the doorway, frozen in expressions of horror. Anderson stopped, speechless. But Mr Divenga seemed merely puzzled. “Senashun, what is senashun?” he asked.
“A kind of burning feeling just for a moment or two.”
An expression almost of alarm appeared on the little man’s face; but it vanished in a moment. “Iss sample,” he said, pointing to the pot on Anderson’s desk. “Iss all the time more miraclus. Experiment lavatories,” he said with a smile at Anderson which showed a mouthful of splendid teeth, “Soon get rid of senashun.”
He had gone, and the directors followed him. Mr Pile cast one backward glance over the top of his pince-nez at Anderson, and the glance was not friendly.
4
Jean Lightley stood awkwardly in front of his desk, with her weight resting on one foot.
“So you brought in my mail at about twenty-five past nine.”
“Yes, Mr Anderson.”
“You’re absolutely certain that this letter wasn’t
“Mr Divenga thinks it most important that the creative minds in charge of an account should feel thoroughly integrated with the work they are handling,” said Mr Pile plummily. He turned to the gaily dressed dwarf. “That is a consideration we always bear in mind, my dear Mr Divenga. We pondered very seriously the problem of which of our creative minds should handle your account. Mr Anderson already has the whole question of shaving at his – ah – fingertips. He handled another shaving cream account with great success when he was – ah – working with a rival agency some years ago. Isn’t that so, Anderson?”
“Iss goot,” said Mr Divenga before Anderson could assent to this complete untruth. Then be turned menacingly on Mr Pile, and gave his chest several steely prods. “But iss not another shaving cream account. Preparation Number One iss not shaving cream. Shaving iss finished.”
“Finished,” said VV triumphantly, and the others took up the cry. There was a short silence. Were they all thinking as he was, Anderson wondered, of Mr Divenga’s great black beard?
“I’ve been giving your preparation a test, Mr Divenga,” he said. “My chin’s pretty blue normally, but Number One leaves it smooth as silk.”
The little man stepped up close to Anderson, passed a hand over his chin and breathed “Ahh.” He turned to the three directors. “You have felt?” Obligingly VV and Pile touched Anderson’s chin and exclaimed in wonder, although as Pile retreated Anderson seemed to remark a slight frown behind the pince-nez. Mr Divenga turned to Reverton. “You have felt?”
“Don’t need to, Mr Divenga. Tried it myself yesterday morning. Absolutely miraculous.”
“Miraclus, miraclus,” said Mr Divenga. “Always in South Africa are performing miraclus. Have marketed many miraclus – clasp knife changes to tooth drawer, paper flower breathe on and opens, card of pretty girl with clothes on – hold to the light and is pretty girl without clothes on.” The three directors and Anderson laughed heartily, but with a trace of puzzlement, VV became oratorical.
“Engaging toys, Mr Divenga, but this is something different. I assure you, my dear sir, that I believe that we believe – your preparation to be the greatest boon ever brought to twentieth-century man. It is—”
“Iss miraclus,” said Mr Divenga, whose attention seemed to have wandered. “Pleased to meet, Mr Anderson. Shall we go on now?” The directors about-turned.
“Is Number One the final form of your preparation?” Anderson asked. “I ask partly because I think we should impart a slightly different odour from the one it has at present before putting it on the market, and partly because I felt a rather curious sensation when I used it this morning.” Then Anderson made the most awful error of his advertising career. “I don’t know whether you’ve tried it yourself, Mr Divenga–” Three directorial faces looked back at him from the doorway, frozen in expressions of horror. Anderson stopped, speechless. But Mr Divenga seemed merely puzzled. “Senashun, what is senashun?” he asked.
“A kind of burning feeling just for a moment or two.”
An expression almost of alarm appeared on the little man’s face; but it vanished in a moment. “Iss sample,” he said, pointing to the pot on Anderson’s desk. “Iss all the time more miraclus. Experiment lavatories,” he said with a smile at Anderson which showed a mouthful of splendid teeth, “Soon get rid of senashun.”
He had gone, and the directors followed him. Mr Pile cast one backward glance over the top of his pince-nez at Anderson, and the glance was not friendly.
4
Jean Lightley stood awkwardly in front of his desk, with her weight resting on one foot.
“So you brought in my mail at about twenty-five past nine.”
“Yes, Mr Anderson.”
“You’re absolutely certain that this letter wasn’t
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