nt 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.

"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