“What kind of loan was it that you wanted to apply for again, sir?”

The young woman leaned over the desk toward Willis McGinty, as if comprehension might increase with physical proximity to this unusual old man.

“It would be a business loan.  But secured by my house, of course.”

McGinty was wishing he hadn't come.  He had envisioned this conversation taking place with a man, probably middle-aged; and in a private office—not this open collection of desks, which was delineated from the rest of the bank only by a change in floor covering.  As he scanned the parking lot beyond the broad plate glass windows, he imagined neighbors on casual errands looking in and seeing him in his earnest discomfiture.

“Mm-hmmm.  And what type of business are you in?”

“Well, I'm a retired—but that's beside the point.  It's a new business.  It's a—well, it's this.”

Reaching into a paper shopping bag, McGinty produced a partly filled glass cologne spray bottle.  The young woman stared dubiously at it.

“Oh, so you've, uh, come up with some sort of new, ah, fragrance?”

“Well, not exactly.  But take a whiff, anyway.”

Before the young woman's look of alarm could translate itself into physical evasive action, McGinty pumped out a small cloud of mist.

Almost at once, the woman's expression changed to one of simple puzzlement and curiosity.

“What is that?”

“I don't know exactly what to call it,” said McGinty, “but it makes people nice to you.”