Della last night. And I know you met in town to-day. If she wants to make that kind of an ass of herself outside, that's her business. But she can't do it here. John Baker's my friend."

For an instant Faxon's jaw was set with curled lips, and his eyes blazed. Then the whole expression changed, and he shrugged his shoulders and laughed—though not very easily.

"Why, Roger old boy, you're all wrong. You're quite mistaken about Della Baker. She and I are good friends—nothing more. She's an unhappy little woman, that's all. She—oh well, she's taken my friendship for something more. She...."

"Let's not discuss her."

"As you like. But you've got to get things straight. Just because I was decent to her when her husband wasn't, and she fancied me in love with her, doesn't make me the sort of chap you seem to think me, does it?"

Roger was silent. Faxon assumed that the silence meant an acceptance of his explanation, and his apparent success made him careless. His voice softened and his manner became almost feline. He put his hand on the other's shoulder.

"You've got it all dead wrong, my boy. Della's spoiled the party for me. She's stuck to me like a barnacle. I didn't come out here for her. I wanted to see Judith. Why...."

Roger seemed suddenly to grow a head taller. His eyes flamed like banked fires, and his nostrils dilated. His fists clenched fiercely. "Cut that—cut it, I tell you," he ground thickly through his set teeth. "Don't you ever speak of my sister like that. By God, I won't stand it, you hear." His voice was low but clear and vibrant with suppressed passion.

Faxon recoiled, and his suavity left him. "Your sister is of age, I believe," he said with a steely evenness. "She needs no protector."

"You keep away, I tell you. You keep away." Roger's breath came shortly, and his fists clenched and unclenched themselves spasmodically.

"If I'm not good enough to look at your sister, how about you—and Molly Wolcott? I can't see that little Vera's any better than Della Baker."

"Cut it, Faxon. You're going too far!"

"Is that so?" sneered the older man harshly. "Well, what if I go farther. I won't take much nonsense from you, my cock."

"You'll get out of this house and stay out...." Roger's eyes were ablaze and his features worked convulsively. The other, much larger of frame, glared down at him with a gaze as hot as his own. The atmosphere was tense.

Then, almost simultaneously the curtains parted and the two sections of the piazza window swung inward. Baker who had left the two men very reluctantly, and had returned as soon as he decently could, was present at the climax. He jumped forward as he saw the two men facing each other over the narrow table, and comprehended the situation. But he was too late. He caught an ugly word from Wynrod. Then, with a savage oath, Faxon's arm shot out.

There was the dull crunch of flesh against flesh, and the younger man staggered back from the impact; then blind with rage, he sprang forward again; a crash of shattered glass followed, as the mis-aimed whisky bottle splintered against the sideboard. Then, simultaneously the three men became aware of Judith standing white and statuesque in the window, her eyes ablaze with scorn and repulsion.

Of what was said she had no clear memory afterwards. Roger, belligerent still, attempted a hot defence, but she silenced him with a cutting word. Faxon for the first time on record, found his suavity forsake him. He had been caught by his hostess in a disorderly broil, and his dapperness was marred with spattered liquor. His rhetoric quite broke down and he was conscious of making the most awkward exit of his career.

It was fully an hour later, when the house was quiet for the night, that Judith found Roger nursing a slight but smarting cut on his cheek, where Faxon's seal ring had grazed it.

"Roger," she said, "that's enough 'first aid,' isn't it? I want to talk with you."

"Oh, cut it out, Judith. Go to bed. I've had all a fellow can stand for one evening, without being lectured by you!"

"It can't wait, Roger. I have some things that I must say to you now, to-night, and you have got to listen. I couldn't sleep if I didn't. I have waited too long already. If I hadn't, this wretched, vulgar thing wouldn't have happened.... And with one of your own guests, too."

He straightened at that and lost his sheepish look. "One of my guests? Not by a million! I wouldn't have that damned bounder in my kennels. Why, hang it all, Judith, I can't see what you have the chap around for at all. He...."

"You know perfectly well why I have him. He's here so that Della Baker can have a good time—poor girl."

"Poor girl! Rats! Just because her husband doesn't play tag with her all day, she's 'poor girl.' Instead of behaving like a halfway decent sort, she's making several different kinds of a fool of herself over Joe Faxon. 'Poor girl?'—don't make me laugh!"

"Oh, I heard what you said to Mr. Faxon. But it doesn't follow, Roger, just because you have a nasty mind that everybody is as horrid as you choose to think. Maybe there are some sides of a man's life that I'm not supposed to know about. But just escaping a breach of promise suit,—oh, Roger, shame on you!"

For a moment the young man lost some of his assurance. "You aren't fair," he protested aggrievedly. "You're bound to put me in the wrong every time. Admitted that I have made all sorts of a fool of myself,—a fellow has to learn somehow, hasn't he? But you'll believe the worst of me any time, and you won't believe anything against your precious friends. You're biased, that's what you are, biased."

Judith sighed and took a cigarette from the table and lighted it. She smoked thoughtfully for a moment.

"Roger, I'm sure I don't know what to do with you. It's just one scrape after another. It won't be long before this one will be out. But I don't mean to be unfair. If as you say, you have been all kinds of a fool, it isn't any more your fault than it is mine. I had no right to make it possible for you to be all kinds of a fool. And as a matter of fact, you are not a bit ashamed of yourself, Roger. On the contrary, you're altogether too satisfied with yourself."

Her brother smiled uneasily. "I don't know that I'm really in need of condolence," he rejoined with an attempt at sarcasm.

"That's just the trouble," she said earnestly. "You've been feeling altogether too well—with altogether too little reason." She tossed her cigarette in the fireplace, and then turned and faced him with lips compressed. "I overheard some people discussing you the other night, Roger. One called you 'no account,' the other, 'a bad egg,' and both agreed that the cause was 'too much money.'"

His eyes flashed. "Who were they?" he demanded belligerently.

"That makes no difference."

"Why doesn't it?"

"Because what they said is true."

Roger was silent at that, but Judith went on relentlessly.

"You are no account, Roger. By the standards of men who do things in the world, you're good for nothing. You're a good dancer. You can drive a motor car. You know enough about horses to play polo. And when you put your mind to it, you play a good game of cards. Beyond that, what can you do—what are you?"

He eyed her narrowly, and a faint flush rose in his cheeks.

"What do you want me to do—give a catalogue of virtues?" he inquired sarcastically. "What's all this leading to, anyway. Granted that I'm all kinds of a waster, what's the answer?"

Judith was thoughtfully silent for a little while after his question, and when she spoke it was to answer it with another question.

"Have you ever done a single stroke of useful work in your life?"

"Probably not." His tone was a little flippant.

"Why not?"

"Never had to." The flippancy was quite obvious.

"No, you never had to—never had to do anything." There was another long silence, broken only