it in her manner she slipped down from the high stool and left the caisse
to take care of itself. Turning to the swing door she barged through with a
high head and fire of determination illuminating her face. She had had
enough of riddles.

Behind the zinc an elderly and trusted waiter was nodding. The kitchen was
cold and dark for the night. Papa Dupont, then, would be upstairs, closeted
with the genius of the establishment.

From the pantry a narrow staircase led up to the apartment above the
restaurant. Sofia mounted rapidly, with a firm tread that was nevertheless
practically noiseless, thanks to the paper-thin soles of well-worn
slippers. She could hear voices bickering above.

At the top there was a short, dark corridor, with three doors. Two of these
were closed on sleeping-rooms; the third door, to a sort of combination
office and living-room, stood open, letting out a stream of light.

Sofia approached on tiptoe, though the altercation going on within had
reached a stage so acute that it was doubtful whether either of the
disputants would have heard had she stumped like a navvy.

The point of dissension was not at first apparent, because Mama Thérèse was
speaking, and what she said had exclusively to do with her estimate of
Dupont's character, the mettle of his spirit, the stuff of his mentality,
the authenticity of his pedigree (with especial reference to the virtue of
his maternal ancestry) and the circumstances of his upbringing; which
estimate in sum was low but by no means so low as the terms in which Mama
Thérèse was inspired to couch it.