"Sure," Marc agreed eagerly. "Anything."
The lady reached out a tapering hand to the table and picked up a piece of paper covered darkly with figures. She handed it to Marc.
Marc glanced at the total and blanched.
"Champagne is so expensive in this country," the lady said regretfully. "And to me it is like water."
"Obviously," Marc murmured. "You must wash your clothes in the stuff." He held out his hand. "But never mind. Just give me the food."
"You have only to open the mouth," the lady smiled. "I will feed you with my own hands." Her eyes held his own with a suggestive glint. "It will be sweeter that way."
"Just give me the plate," Marc said.
The woman paid no attention. "You will drink the wine of my country from the cup of my hand, like a great, thirsting beast." She laughed throatily. "It is so that we make love with the meal."
"Doesn't it get awfully messy?" Marc asked ruefully. "Or do you wear gloves?"