Together, the two of them left the table and moved across the dining room, to the door leading onto the veranda. Marc stared worriedly after them. "Don't look so glum," Toffee said gently, reaching out to pat his hand. "You still love me, you know, no matter what happens." "I don't deserve you," Marc said sadly. "I've never been that mean." It was then that he caught sight of the jug. It had begun to behave very strangely in the last few seconds. Surreptitiously, it was inching away from his chair like a footless penguin. "So you're back, are you?" Marc said addressing the ambling jug. The jug came to a guilty halt. "Uh-huh," George's voice said quietly. "What have you been up to behind my back? What's this deal with Pete?" "Nothing ... much." "You sit down," Marc commanded irritably, "and materialize. I want to tell you what I think of you right to your treacherous face." * * * * * The jug swooped over to the chair that Pete had just left and settled on the floor. The chair moved briefly out from the table, then back again. Slowly, George came into view, looking very sheepish. That no one besides Marc and Toffee seemed to notice this singular occurrence was probably due to the failing eyesight of the other guests of Sunnygarden Lodge. Marc leveled a tense finger at George's nose. His lips parted angrily, but he didn't speak. An alien hand had suddenly closed over his own. He looked up to find the decrepit gypsy standing beside him. She was bent over his hand, staring at it myopically. "You," she said in heavy, theatrical tones, "are destined to live a long and happy life. It is written in your hand." Toffee looked on these proceedings with high disapproval. "You quit holding his hand, you old moll," she put in heatedly, "or your life won't be worth living." The woman looked up in alarm. "Alright, dearie," she said, dropping Marc's hand. "No harm done." She tottered briskly away from the table. Not to be deterred by this interruption, Marc leveled his finger back at George's nose. "Now, listen, you ..." he began. But there he stopped. A strange expression had come into George's face and he was beginning to look a little ill. He glanced uneasily around the room, then swallowed ... hard. For a moment he looked like he was going to speak, but all of a sudden there was a sharp popping sound, like a blown fuse, and he instantly vanished. In the same moment, the jug beside his chair began to tremble violently, then, astonishingly, leaped about a foot into the air, as though seized with a fit of anger. It lingered there, undecidedly suspended for a moment, then suddenly crashed to the floor, sending shattered crockery and liquid fanning out in a messy arc. Marc and Toffee stared at the wreckage as the little white-haired lady, who had found George's feet so fascinating, suddenly started from her chair.