"No!" Marc yelled. "No!"
"Oh, my land!" one of the club ladies shrieked above the others. "Now there's a naked woman swimming around in the pool!"
"It's probably that poor statue trying to get away!" one of her sisters replied.
As Toffee swam toward the pedestal and the statue, the doors of the Wynant became crowded with shoving spectators who had been attracted by the din inside. The foyer began to fill rapidly. Behind the desk, a door opened and the manager of the Wynant ran to the desk clerk. He was a plum-cheeked, small man with dark hair and, at the moment, an extremely florid complexion. He grabbed the clerk by the shoulder and swung him around.
"What's going on here?" he demanded. He glanced toward the statue. "Who is that man up there? What is he doing? And that woman?"
The clerk trembled under his grasp. "I don't know," he said weakly. "I told them they couldn't stay here."
"Do something!" the manager piped. "This isn't a fun house!"
"Would you swear to it?" the clerk pleaded.
It was just as Toffee had reached the pedestal and was starting upward toward Marc and the statue that the elevator door slid open for a second time, and Mrs. Arbuthner-Wright, a small invalid of advanced years and means, manoeuvered her wheelchair into the tumultuous foyer. Mrs. Arbuthner-Wright had occupied the Wynant penthouse suite for almost twenty years now. Starting across the foyer, she braked her chair to a sudden stop and observed the activity at the fountain with an interested but unperturbed eye. She turned to the manager.
"Well, I'll be damned," she commented dryly. "It's about time this place got a floor show." She looked back at the statue. "You've got to give him credit for spunk. But I'll lay odds on the statue."