by the nervous drumming of Roger's finger-tips on the edge of his chair. When Judith spoke again, her tone was tender, but with a vibrant note of determination which communicated itself fully even to her brother's apathetic faculties.

"Well, from now on, you're going to play the man. You're going to take care of yourself. You're going to have to do things."

"What do you mean?" All Roger's flippancy had vanished, and in its place was an almost comic anxiety.

"Just what I said, Roger lad. I shall support you no longer."

"You mean ... you're going to stop my allowance?" He was aghast at the possibility, and he made no effort to conceal his feelings. "Surely you can't be thinking of anything so—so—outrageous?" he demanded.

"But I am!" She tossed her head with a suggestion of defiance, and smiled. "You've done as you pleased for all your twenty-four years. Well, you can go on doing as you please—only you'll do it on your own money."

"But this money—my allowance—it isn't yours, you know," he expostulated, almost tearfully. "It's merely an idiotic will that gives you the disposal of it. What right have you got to get on your high horse and tell me what I must and mustn't do? Answer me that."

"No right, Roger," she said sadly. "Half of what we have is yours of course. But it's not yours till you're thirty—you know that. I couldn't give it to you now even if I wanted to. I'm not even obliged to give you an allowance. The two thousand, of course, you'll continue to get. I can't control that. But beyond...."

"Two thousand! What good will that do me? Do you think I can live on that?"

"Some people do," she murmured faintly. Judith was not without a certain quiet irony when she chose to employ it.

"Don't be silly, Judith. You know mighty well I can't get along on that. Why, good heavens, I can't possibly do it!" His voice rose shrilly as the enormity of the thought struck him with all its force. But Judith refused to be troubled.

"Perhaps you'll know more about it after you've tried," she said gently.

Roger jumped to his feet and paced rapidly to and fro for a moment. Then he faced his sister, and his eyes blazed like those of an angry cat.

"Do you really mean that you're going to play this rotten trick on me?" he demanded hotly. "Are you going to take advantage of a perfectly insane will and cheat me out of what's honestly mine? Or are you kidding me? If you are, I've had about enough of it."

"I mean every word," she returned, with not a little asperity. "And I'm not cheating you. You've made a mess of your life, left to yourself. Now I'm going to help you. I'm tired of suffering for your sins!" Suddenly the quality of her voice changed completely and her eyes glistened suggestively. "Oh, Roger lad, can't you understand? Can't you see that I do so want you to make something of yourself? You're the only thing I have in the world. Can't you see how it hurts me to have people feel a contempt for you? I'm the only mother you've ever had. I know I haven't done a millionth part of what I should have done for you. I've failed—miserably. I know that. All your weaknesses are due to me. You aren't to blame. This is my last chance. You're slipping, Roger—slipping down. This is my last chance to catch you—before—before ... it's too late. Judge Wolcott agrees: I talked it over with him. Oh, I'm sorry, lad. You haven't an idea how sorry! It breaks my heart to be cruel to you this way—but I've got to be, Roger. I've got to be—can't you understand? Please say you do." She put her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his. But he shook her off roughly.

"That's all very fine talk," he snapped savagely, "but it doesn't mean anything. Who the devil is old Wolcott to worry about my morals...?"

"As Molly's father he...."

"Molly can take care of herself. But that isn't the point. What I want to know is where Wolcott gets the right to monkey with my affairs. And as for you—if you're going to cheat me out of what's mine—for the love of heaven, do it, but don't make it worse with all this high and mighty talk. It makes me tired."

"Please, Roger...." The tears in her eyes were plain now.

"Maybe I am all the pleasant things you say I am. Maybe I haven't got sense enough to take care of my own money. But what are you? I never noticed any wings on your shoulders."

"You don't understand. I...."

"Understand? Of course I don't understand. That's why I'm asking the question. If I'm what you say I am—what are you? Where'd you get your preaching card?"

"What difference does it make what I am?"

"It makes a lot of difference. If you're so hot on reforming me, why don't you take a crack at yourself? I don't see that you're so almighty angelic. What have you ever done in the world? You can play the piano after a fashion and sing, and talk a little French, and play cards and smoke cigarettes and drink cocktails and ... well, what else can you do? You spend twice as much money as I do, and I'll be hanged if I can see that you spend it to much better advantage. If I'm a waster and no account and a bad egg, you're one too. The only difference is that you wear skirts and I don't. Well—why don't you answer me?"

He towered over her, white with his rising rage.

"I say, why don't you answer me?" he repeated hotly.

"You don't need to be rude," she answered, her voice trembling.

"I'm not rude. I'm simply putting the same question to you that you put to me. You held the mirror up to me. You can't squeal if I do the same by you. You wanted to know what I had ahead, what I thought about things, where I stood, and all that. Well, what do you think about things? Where do you stand? What are you? Turn about's fair, isn't it?"

Judith sought shelter in dignity. She raised her head coldly. "I think there is nothing more to be said. I think you had better go to bed."

"No," he sneered bitterly; "there isn't anything more. You're dealing the cards. But it's a darned rotten deal, just the same. If you've got a clear conscience you've got a devil of a lot more than I'd have if I was in your shoes."

With which bit of self-depreciation Roger stalked dignifiedly, if a trifle unsteadily, out of the room.

Judith remained as he left her, with her chin in her hand, staring into the empty fireplace. Once or twice she brought her handkerchief to her eyes. Her brother's angry words had stung her far more cruelly than she was willing to admit. His counter arraignment of her had struck home. What was she, what did she think about things? In her zeal for him, had she not overlooked herself?

She cast her eyes around the room, reeking with the sweet sickliness of dead cigarettes. She thought of the high stakes that had passed at her tables, she saw again the wan, tired, hard faces of the players, their feverish, greedy fingers; and she heard, as in an echo, their blithe cruelties, their empty blandishments. And these people, she reflected bitterly, were her friends—the only ones she had.

Roger had put the question to her squarely. What was she? The words struck her like a blow in the face. And what did she think—about anything? And the weight of the question was none the lighter for being asked for the second time in the same day. Roger the immature boy over whom she had allowed herself to stand in judgment, and Brent Good, the pitiful vagabond, had both weighed her in the balance and found her wanting.

She shuddered at the arid uselessness of what she called her mind. The grotesque procession of her daily thoughts passed before her in review. She tried to close her eyes and shut the ghastly picture out, but could not.

Riches, health, intelligence of a sort—these things were hers. What had she done with them? The answer hurt, almost physically. Emptiness, idleness, futility ... was there anything else in herself, her friends, her whole life? Had she justified existence?

Suddenly she realised that it was