"I don't want any one ever to pay for anything he doesn't like," Nancy insisted. "Slip the money back in their coat pockets if you can't manage it any other way." "There's lots of complaints about the soup," Dolly said; "so many people don't like tomato in the heat. Gaspard, he always had a choice even if it wasn't down on the menu. I might deduct, say fifteen cents now, and slip it back to them with their change." "Please do," Nancy implored. "Tell Molly and Hildeguard." "Hilda would drop dead, but Molly'd like the fun of it." It was hot in the kitchen. The soup kettle bad been emptied of more than half its contents, but the liquid that was left bubbled thickly over the gas flame that had been newly lit to reheat it. The pungent, acrid odor of hot tomatoes affronted her nostrils. She had a vision now of the pale tired faces of the little stenographers turning in disgust from the contemplation of the flamboyant and sticky purée on their plates, annoyed by the color scheme in combination with the soft wild-rose pink of the table bouquets, if not actually sickened by the fluid itself. For the first time since his abrupt seizure that morning she began to hope in her heart that Gaspard's illness might be a matter of days instead of weeks. She served Hildeguard and one of the other waitresses with more soup, and then began to boil some eggs to eke out the chicken, which, owing to her unprecedented generosity in the matter of portions, seemed to be diminishing with alarming rapidity. From the kitchen closet beyond came the clatter of dishwashing, the interminable splashing of water, and stacking of plates, punctuated by the occasional clang of smashing glass or pottery. She had discharged two dishwashers in less than two weeks' time, with the natural feeling that any change in that department must be for the better, but the present incumbent was even more incompetent than his predecessors. Even Nancy's impregnable nerves began to feel the strain of the continual clamorous assault on them. Betty appeared in the doorway that led directly from the restaurant stairs. "I'm sorry to intrude," she said. "Don't blame Michael, I'm breaking my parole to get in here. He locked me in and made me swear I'd keep out of the kitchen before he'd let me out at all, but I had to tell you this. The tomato soup has curdled and you ought not to serve it any more." "Well, I thought it looked rather funny," Nancy moaned. "It won't do anybody any harm, you know. It just looks bad, and a lot of people are kicking about it. Did Molly tell you about the old fellow that got tipsy on the peaches?" "No, she didn't. I sent Michael out for some ripe peaches and other fruit to serve instead."