"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 cold. She shivered, and turned out the light. II