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 Therese 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
Therese was inspired to couch it.
Papa Dupont did not seem to be greatly interested. He had heard all this
before, many a time, with insignificant phraseological variations. Sofia,
pausing unseen and unsuspected in the darkness just outside the doorway,
could see him slouching deep in his chair, to one side of the table, his
soft fat hands deep in the pockets of his trousers, his chin sunken on his
chest, something dogged in the louring frown which he was bending upon
nothing, something of genuine indifference in his passive attitude toward
the blowsy virago who was leaning across the table the better to spit
vituperation at him.
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