ficient self,
reappeared. Her voice had changed, too. It was the calm, business-like
tone which the world knew.

"You have wealth, my dear. The pleasures of society no longer appeal.
You have made a start. I see no reason for discouragement."

"But I want to _start_," cried Judith. "I want to feel my hands on
something."

"There are a number of committees and boards on which you might serve--"

"Oh, but that's the ordinary thing. I've done _that_."

"Not exactly." Mrs. Dodson's voice was a trifle grim. "You were a
sociological dilettante. You were an amateur, so to speak."

"But it's so cut-and-dried."

"You must first learn the ropes. You have to know your tools before you
can use them. It will be dry and tedious, of course, and there will be
no sense of accomplishment. It will be educational. The
accomplishment--such as it is--will come later."

"And then--when it comes--it will be reform?" She wondered why the
implication was so distasteful.

"Yes, my dear. You have too much to be a revolutionary. You remember the
story of the Rich Young Man. It was always so. He was asked to give up
_everything_. He could not. I could not. You cannot. You may give more
than I--in some ways you already have. But you will not give _all_. You
will always be a--"

"--reformer," interrupted Judith bitterly.

"Yes," continued Mrs. Dodson, gently, "only a reformer. Your influence
will die with you. You will pass very little on. The radicals will hate
and ridicule you. Even those you help will distrust you. And what is
worse--you will some day come to distrust them."

"Then why go forward?" cried Judith. "Why not stay where I am and be
comfortable?"

Mrs. Dodson smiled wisely. "Because you can't. I remember hearing a
gushing young thing ask a great novelist if he didn't just love to
write. His reply was, 'I loathe it.' When she looked her amazement--as
we all did--he added, 'I'm miserable when I write, but I'm more
miserable when I don't.' We thought he was just posing, but I know now
what he meant. I understand perfectly. I loathe the wretched futility
of the work I do, with its everlasting cowardice and compromise. I wish
I could go back to the life for which I was born and bred, which even
those dearest to me, lead now. But I can't do that. Life as it is, is
unsatisfying. But any other would be worse."

"Why, I always thought you so happy--one of the happiest women I knew,"
cried Judith in amazement.

"Oh, well--" Mrs