"Too well," Marc said. "We'd better separate them before they get downright intimate." He turned to Busby. "Show the guests to the wine cellar."
"But, sir...."
"I know, Busby," Marc said, "but they'll probably be quiet there—at least for a while."
"I suppose so, sir," Busby said dully. He started back toward the house, and the raucous little band fell in behind him. As they departed, Toffee stared after Floss malevolently.
"I may belt that kid one yet," she murmured.
Behind them, the bus started up, lurched crazily forward, shot through the hedge bordering the drive and took off drunkenly across the lawn and into the trees.
"Oh well," Marc sighed. "I suppose it might be worse—though I can't imagine how."
"Devastation seems to be prevalent today," Toffee agreed.
"And with you helping it along," Marc said, "I seem to have gotten a double order." Lifting his glasses briefly, he stared off toward the woods. "I suppose I'd better get going. The sooner I settle things the better."
"If you want my advice," Toffee said, "take a gun."