"I don't deserve you," Marc said sadly. "I've never been that mean."
It was then that he caught sight of the jug. It had begun to behave very strangely in the last few seconds. Surreptitiously, it was inching away from his chair like a footless penguin.
"So you're back, are you?" Marc said addressing the ambling jug.
The jug came to a guilty halt. "Uh-huh," George's voice said quietly.
"What have you been up to behind my back? What's this deal with Pete?"
"Nothing ... much."
"You sit down," Marc commanded irritably, "and materialize. I want to tell you what I think of you right to your treacherous face."
The jug swooped over to the chair that Pete had just left and settled on the floor. The chair moved briefly out from the table, then back again. Slowly, George came into view, looking very sheepish. That no one besides Marc and Toffee seemed to notice this singular occurrence was probably due to the failing eyesight of the other guests of Sunnygarden Lodge.
Marc leveled a tense finger at George's nose. His lips parted angrily, but he didn't speak. An alien hand had suddenly closed over his own. He looked up to find the decrepit gypsy standing beside him. She was bent over his hand, staring at it myopically.