"How much, Roger?"
"Oh, come on, sis, I'm in a hurry. Draw the cheque like a good girl ... let's talk about it to-morrow." Suddenly he caught the expression on his sister's face. It was an expression he seldom saw; one that he did not like. "Well, if you have got to have the horrible truth," he snapped petulantly, "I'm cleaned out ... absolute bust ... I still owe a few hundred to Faxon," he added reluctantly.
She sighed. "Again."
"Nothing's broken right for me. Absolutely nothing. You saw yourself the way the cards treated me last night."
Her eyes flashed. "You've got to be fairly sober to play a decent game of cards, Roger."
He looked aggrieved. "I was sober—almost. Sober enough, anyway. It was luck, I tell you—just the beastly rotten luck I always have. I never did have any luck, from the day I was born. Why, any other chap, with my chances ..."
"Roger," interrupted his sister shortly, as if she had not heard him at all. "Why do you find it necessary to throw away every cent you get? What's your idea?"
"My idea?"
"Yes. What's in your head about the future? What are you going to do with yourself? What do you think about—about—oh, things in general?"
He looked his bewilderment. "I'm afraid I don't quite connect, sis ..."