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Updated: May 20, 2025
Out of the profits of Hattie's justly famous Brown Cold Cream Guaranteed Color-fast Mulatto, Medium, Chocolate, had come Marcia's ermine muff and tippet; the enamel toilet set; the Steinway grand piano; the yearly and by no means light tuition toll at Miss Harperly's Select Day School for Girls. You get the whimsy of it? For everything fair that was Marcia, Hattie had brownly paid for.
"O God!" A malaprop of a tear, too heavy to wink in, came rolling suddenly down Hattie's cheek. "Morton let us live for God's sake! Please!" He regarded the clean descent of the tear down Hattie's color-fast cheek and its clear drop into the bosom of her black-taffeta housemaid's dress. "By Jove! The stuff is color-fast! You've a fortune in that cream if you handle it right, honey."
But, just the same, Miss Robinson's hand flew up automatically against the dark of Hattie's lips. "I don't fade off, dearie. Your own natural skin is no more color-fast. I handled Elaine Doremus in 'The Snowdrop' for three seasons. Never so much as a speck or a spot on her. My cream don't fade." "Of course not, dear! How silly of me! Kiss me again." That was kind enough of her.
Six dozen half-pint jars waiting to be filled with Brown Cold Cream. One hundred and forty-four jars a month. Guaranteed Color-fast. Mulatto, Medium, Chocolate. Labeled. Sealed. Sold. And demand exceeding the supply. An ingratiating, expert cream, known the black-faced world over. It slid into the skin, not sootily, but illuminating it to winking, African copper.
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