Marc, on his side of the table, had looked away for a moment, his attention caught by the frankly admiring glance of a dark, heavy-lidded lady at the next table. There was about her an unmistakably continental air, and Marc couldn't help noticing that her neckline had plunged and crashed somewhere in the neighborhood of the _Arc de Triumph_. He flushed and turned away. "Oh, please," he said anxiously, to no one in particular. "Please give me something to eat." "Can't sit down?" Toffee said to the waiter. "For heaven's sake, why not? Has something happened to your...?" "Of course not!" the waiter said quickly. "It isn't allowed. Waiters never sit with the guests at the Wynant." "Why not?" Toffee asked. "Is there something the matter with the waiters here?" The waiter opened his mouth to answer, then was silent with thought. "I don't know," he said finally. "I guess there's nothing wrong with us. At least I think I'm all right. I don't see why I shouldn't sit down. If I'm invited, that is." "Then have a seat," Toffee said. "Thank you," the waiter said with a slight bow. "I don't mind if I do." With great deliberation he turned, regarding the other diners with a look of scornful defiance, then crossed around the table and sat down. "Now, about that extra silver you wanted...." A gasp echoed through the room. At the far side a bejeweled matron rose from her place with a snort of outrage and stiffly departed the room. In the meanwhile Marc had turned imploring eyes to the only quarter from which he had so far received any attention at all. The heavy-lidded lady smiled slowly. "Would you give me something to eat?" Marc asked weakly. "You have so much there and.... If I don't get something soon I'll drift off into space." "It is such a feeling as I have often suffered myself," the woman said in a heavy French accent. "But never for the want of food. I could not forgive myself to turn away a man with the hunger." "I've got the hunger something fierce," Marc said. "Of course, monsieur will pay the bill?" "Sure," Marc agreed eagerly. "Anything." * * * * * The lady reached out a tapering hand to the table and picked up a piece of paper covered darkly with figures. She handed it to Marc. Marc glanced at the total and blanched. "Champagne is so expensive in this country," the lady said regretfully. "And to me it is like water." "Obviously," Marc murmured. "You must wash your clothes in the stuff." He held out his hand. "But never mind. Just give me the food." "You have only to open the mouth," the lady smiled. "I will feed you with my own hands." Her eyes held his own with a suggestive glint. "It will be sweeter that way." "Just give me the plate," Marc said. The woman paid no attention. "You will drink the wine of my country from the cup of my hand, like a great, thirsting beast." She laughed throatily. "It is so that we make love with the meal."