"Of course not!" the waiter said quickly. "It isn't allowed. Waiters never sit with the guests at the Wynant."
"Why not?" Toffee asked. "Is there something the matter with the waiters here?"
The waiter opened his mouth to answer, then was silent with thought. "I don't know," he said finally. "I guess there's nothing wrong with us. At least I think I'm all right. I don't see why I shouldn't sit down. If I'm invited, that is."
"Then have a seat," Toffee said.
"Thank you," the waiter said with a slight bow. "I don't mind if I do." With great deliberation he turned, regarding the other diners with a look of scornful defiance, then crossed around the table and sat down. "Now, about that extra silver you wanted...."
A gasp echoed through the room. At the far side a bejeweled matron rose from her place with a snort of outrage and stiffly departed the room. In the meanwhile Marc had turned imploring eyes to the only quarter from which he had so far received any attention at all. The heavy-lidded lady smiled slowly.
"Would you give me something to eat?" Marc asked weakly. "You have so much there and.... If I don't get something soon I'll drift off into space."
"It is such a feeling as I have often suffered myself," the woman said in a heavy French accent. "But never for the want of food. I could not forgive myself to turn away a man with the hunger."
"I've got the hunger something fierce," Marc said.
"Of course, monsieur will pay the bill?"