"Perfectly all right, lover," she murmured as she stepped over his prone figure and started from the room. "Don't bother getting up."
Marc turned back to the table and frowned sternly.
"George," he said tentatively. "George, I know you're there, so there's no use hiding. Show yourself."
"Of course," George's voice said out of space, with malicious levity. "In a moment. Wonderful fight, isn't it?"
"George!" Marc said.
But there was only silence from the ghost. Marc gazed speculatively around, peering anxiously into the ranks of the warring diners for some sign; there was no telling what the sporadic spook might undertake in a situation of this sort. It was only a moment before the worst of his fears were realized.
There was only a slight disturbance around the cigarette urn at first, a faint billowing of the table cloth. Then, as though someone had secured a grip on the thing ... as George indeed had ... it suddenly lifted into the air. There was a period of shifting and balancing, then it lifted steadily upward until it was above the heads of the embroiled diners.
"No!" Marc yelled at the top of his lungs. "George! Put it back!"
Instantly all was silence in the dining room as the warring guests froze in various attitudes of combat and cast frightened eyes upward at the floating urn. The enchantress from France, her hand clutching at Toffee's hair, was somewhat more affected than the others.
"I haf loose my reason!" she wailed. "I am departed from my wits in this land of barbarians!" Then, becoming considerably more heavy-lidded than before, she wilted quietly to the floor.