The Last Doorbell

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It was the last doorbell on the street and it belonged to a commuter’s dream, a white Cape Cod cottage with green shutters and a white picket fence completely surrounding the house and lot.

The realtors couldn’t have selected, for their advertising, a more appropriate housewife than the one who answered Frank Sargent’s ring on the doorbell. Her hair was a soft chestnut, only recently waved. She had the features and complexion of the Camel cigarette girl.

She had a figure, too.

Frank Sargent looked at her and felt resentment toward the man who had taken this girl out of circulation. He drew in his breath slowly and said:

“Good afternoon, madam. I represent the Trotter Institute of Public Opinion... I beg your pardon?”

“I said I wasn’t interested.”

“But I’m not selling anything. I merely want to ask you a few questions. You know — the Trotter Poll.”

“Please,” the photogenic housewife said. “Not now.”

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