Toffee studied his predicament through thoughtful, half-closed lids. "No," she murmured, "you couldn't do that." She glanced around, at the Wyman's markedly heavy silverware. She promptly picked up her own place setting and dropped it in Marc's pockets. The Blemishes quickly followed suit.
A moment later Marc's pockets fairly bulged with purloined silver. The other diners looked on with awed fascination.
"Have you ever seen anything so flagrant?" a woman at an adjoining table whispered. "I've heard of people stealing a knife or fork for a souvenir, but ... well ... cleaning out the whole table!"
"Even the salt and peppers," her companion observed, half with admiration. "Before they get through there'll be nothing left of this hotel but the hollow shell."
Toffee regarded Marc with satisfaction. "That should hold you," she said. "Unburden yourself."
Willing to risk anything by now, Marc put down the urn. He remained stationary. With an echoing sigh of relief and a loud clattering of silver, he seated himself at the table.
"Thank God!" he groaned.
The other diners, feeling that they were now in for a period of respite, turned back to their cooling meals and a general buzz of low-key conversation. It was at this moment that a waiter, just on duty and starkly unappraised of recent developments, made his entrance into the dining room, picked up a pitcher of water, and went to the aid of the newcomers. He moved forward with the light step of the happy and the innocent. Toffee saw him coming.
"May we have more silver?" she asked.
The waiter stopped short, put the pitcher of water down heavily on the table. The dining room quieted for a second time.