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 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.