"Don't you dare talk to me like that!" She was bolt upright herself, and wrath flamed in her own eyes. "Don't you ever dare use that tone to me, Roger Wynrod." "I'm sorry," he said humbly, as if he really had committed a crime of incredible enormity. Then with one last gasp of justification, he added a timid "But you did...." She would not allow him to finish. Quite illogically, but quite completely, she had changed the positions. From being the defence she had managed to make herself the prosecution, and Roger, being thoroughly masculine, was utterly dumfounded at the shift. And she, being as equally feminine, took up her new position with renewed vigour. Her voice was full of a most righteous scorn when she spoke. "I didn't laugh at you. But suppose I did. I'd be justified. Why should I want to marry you? You're not even a man yet. You're just a boy. You've never done anything a man should. You even let that kid Jenkins beat you this afternoon. You're just a good-for-nothing lazybones, that's what you are, and you want me to marry you." Roger tried unsuccessfully to interrupt her, each time she paused for breath, but it only seemed to intensify the flow of her condemnation. He grew more and more uncomfortable, because part, at least, of what she said, he knew to be true. "I didn't mean to start anything like this," he put in mournfully. "I don't know how it ever started." She did not know either, but she managed to convey to him the conviction that it was most deliberate. And that, as she knew it would, only made him more mournful still. It was in a very chastened voice and manner that he acquiesced in her suggestion that they return to the house. He would have been astonished, as they walked silently in, had he known the very intense desire that consumed her, to kiss him. From the funereal aspect of Roger's countenance, and the contented cheerfulness of Molly's, as they entered the room, Judith was able to surmise very shrewdly something of what had taken place. She ached to tell her doleful brother what, with true masculine obtuseness, he never in the world would guess. Indoors, the evening dragged along, uneventful to the point of stupidity. There was a little excitement, not unmixed with acerbity, when Ned Alder, contrary to his usual habit, proved clever enough with the cards to add a not inconsiderable sum to his already swollen fortune. But his amazed joy was more than offset by Roger's patent depression and Molly's inexplicable apathy. Altogether it was not as successful a party, as it had given promise of being, and it broke up early.