"Well, now, how'd you like a dame like that!" the cab driver exclaimed, climbing out of the car. "She takes a powder just because the guy gets a snootful and passes out!" He looked down at Marc who, sprawled on the sidewalk, was tuning up for a good solid snore. "I wonder where he belongs?"
Wherever he belonged, Marc at that very moment was lounging in a state of quiet bliss on one of the rising slopes in the valley of his mind. He turned to regard Toffee whose costume had once again become the transparent tunic, and to reflect that Paris would have to go a long way to stitch up anything half as becoming. Toffee smiled back at him and propped herself up lazily on one elbow.
"Well," she said. "It was something of a whirl, wasn't it? I mean it leaves one a trifle dizzy."
"Whirl?" Marc asked. "How do you mean?" Recent events had slipped from his mind in the interval between awareness and slumber.
"The bombs," Toffee said. "The politicians—" she held up her hand and displayed the ring "—and this."
Memory jarred back into place. "Oh, my gosh!" Marc cried. "All those congressmen! And the President! They're all back there...! And you're here...! How'll you ever get them straightened out?"
Toffee laughed. "I won't. There's going to be a terrific run on the Washington doctors for a while, that's all. Anyway, it'll do the old tubs good, give them something to think about next time they start getting gay with the public's time—and redheaded women."
"Anyway," Marc said. "At least it proves that a well-placed jolt in the right place is a lot more powerful than any bomb. I was right in the first place. When warfare gets personal it loses its attraction. I suppose they'll be busy developing more and worse bombs as soon as the shock wears off, but at least the people in the world will have another chance to try and prevent them."