"Doesn't it get awfully messy?" Marc asked ruefully. "Or do you wear gloves?" "Love is never tidy," the woman breathed, leaning close to him. "Not when it is worthwhile. Love is always a beautiful, beautiful mess." Marc, more embarrassed than enthralled at this invitation to amour among the foodstuffs, was not aware that Toffee had paused in her conversation with the waiter and fastened her eyes with brooding hostility to the back of his neck. "And now," the French temptress was saying, "the monsieur will part the beautiful lips so Lisa can give him the food of love." "Oh, yeah?" Toffee put in hotly from across the table. "If the monsieur parts the beautiful lips Toffee will part his teeth for him!" Marc started guiltily. "Now, Toffee...!" "Stand back from that French pastry, you philandering gourmet!" Toffee said, getting up from her chair. "When I get through with her there's going to be a lot more broken than just her speech!" "She's only feeding me!" Marc said. "Yeah," Toffee sneered. "The food of love. I heard her." She swung toward the woman. "I'm the dietitian around here, honey, and don't you forget it." "I only show the monsieur how she is done in the old country." "Well," Toffee said, "get a load of how she's done in the new one. Prepare yourself to get fractured, you Parisian petunia!" And with that the turbulent redhead snatched the plate of squab that rested in the tapering hand of the enchantress and carefully emptied its contents into the lady's elaborate hair-do. "_Mon dieu!_" the woman screamed as she shot out of her chair. She swung about and eyed Toffee malevolently through a trickle of gravy. "So! The mademoiselle would be the wildcat, eh?" She glanced quickly about for ammunition and found it on a neighboring table. Scooping a plate of soup from beneath the owner's very spoon, she turned furiously and prepared to hurl it into Toffee's face. "I have never been so insult in all my life!" "Put that soup down, Fifi," Toffee warned, "or you're going to get insult in places you didn't know you had." The soggy siren did as she was told, but only by accident. As she started toward Toffee, the plate of soup slithered out of her hand, looped gracefully through the air and landed upside down in the lap of a lavender-laced matron. Heaving herself from her chair, the matron trumpeted her displeasure to the assemblage at large, armed herself with a pitcher of water, and entered the fray. Stepping with great dignity to the side of the besieged European, she heaved the contents of the pitcher in the general vicinity of her mid-section. Then, with great pleasure, she threw back her head and laughed. Just in time to receive a plateful of oysters squarely in the face. * * * * *