"Please," he said, lowering his voice imploringly. "Please give back the urn and go away. Just set it down and turn around and walk out. You'll ruin me if you don't. I have a reputation to maintain. I've been known to send royalty back to their rooms for neck-ties before I'd give them service. A vice president fairly groveled before me once. These people are expecting something from me, and I can't let them down. Please, please go away!"
The party of four remained unmoved, either emotionally or physically. They stayed where they were, staring at the man with stoic calm and determination. The unhappy man turned desperately to Marc.
"For heaven's sake," he said, "have you developed some sort of fetish for that urn? Do you imagine yourself to be in love with it? Is that why you're hugging it in that awful way?"
"I'm not hugging it," Marc wheezed. "I'm carrying it."
"Where?" the maitre de asked bewilderedly.
"Anywhere," Marc said. "Just so long as I get something to eat. Please give me a table and some food."
The maitre de's jaw squared with sudden determination. "No," he said. "Flatly, no! I owe it to the Wynant dining room and these people here to stick to my guns. I'll give you till ten to take that urn and leave this room."
"I'd love to," Marc said weakly. "But I can't. Don't you understand?"
"Then just give the urn to me," the reluctant host said. "I'll see that it gets back where it belongs."
"No," Marc said. "Flatly, no."