"Never!" Mama Thérèse thumped the table vehemently. "It is mine by rights,
I have earned it. Look at the way I have slaved for her, the tender care I
have lavished upon her, ever since she was a little one in my arms."

"By all means," Papa Dupont agreed, "look at it, but don't talk about it to
her. She might not understand you. Also, do not depend upon her to endorse
any claim you might set up based upon such assertions."

"She is an ungrateful baggage!"

"Possibly; but she is human, she has a memory--"

"Are you going to be sentimental about her again?" Mama Thérèse demanded.
"Pitiful old goat!"

"But I am not in the least sentimental," Papa Dupont disclaimed. "It is
rather I who am practical, you who are sentimental. I ask you: Is there any
way we can hold on to that money unless I marry Sofia? You do not answer.
Why? Because there _is_ no other way. Then I am practical. But you will not
admit that. And why? Because we have lived together for a number of years
through force of habit, because once, very long ago, we were lovers, you
and I--so long ago that you have forgotten you ever had a softer name for
me than pig or goat. Who is the sentimentalist now--eh?"

"Shut your face!" Mama Thérèse growled. "You annoy me. I have a
presentiment I shall one day murder you."

"You would have done that long ago," Papa Dupont pointed out, "if you had
had the courage. Enough! I am silent. But when you are tired trying to