"What she means—," began Marc.
"You stay out of this!" snapped the judge. "I'll hear from you later."
"But judge," said Toffee. "I don't know how I can make it clearer."
"Never mind," replied the judge hotly. "Let's hear no more about it. I sincerely wish I hadn't brought it up in the first place. Now, perhaps, you'll tell me what went on in the Spar Club this evening, and never mind the poetry."
"Well," said Toffee brightly, "it all started when this old fright tried to steal Mr. Snell from me—right there on the dance floor, too." An earnest expression crept over her face. "She should be locked up, judge."
Marc's thoughts raced wildly. If ever there was a time for Toffee to fade, this was unquestionably it. He clamped his eyes tightly shut and tried frantically to picture peaceful, pastoral scenes in an attempt to induce sleep. However, what occurred to him most frequently were bleak countrysides strewn with assorted wreckage, symbolic of his future.
"Exactly what is your relationship with this man?" The judge nodded in Marc's direction without looking at him.
"Well," said Toffee. "You see, I sort of belong to him, in a way."
"You mean he's your guardian?" This appealed to Toffee and she nodded vigorously. The judge turned to Marc.
"Young man—," he began, then looked questioningly at Toffee. "What's the matter with him?"