"Well, I have. Thousands," Mrs. Lloyd said promptly.

"Oh, no! Not a BAD child," her hostess said, quickly. "A
disappointing child perhaps, or a strong-willed child, you mean. But
no good mother--and that doesn't mean merely a good woman, or a
church-going woman!--could possibly have a really bad child. 'By
their fruits,' you know. And then of course we haven't a perfect
system of nursery training yet; we expect angels. We judge by
little, inessential things, we're exacting about unimportant
trifles. We don't want our sons to marry little fluffy-headed dolls,
although the dolls may make them very good wives. We don't want them
to make a success of real estate, if the tradition of the house is
for the bar or the practice of medicine. And we lose heart at the
first suspicion of bad company, or of drinking; although the best
men in the world had those temptations to fight! But, anyway, I
would rather try at that and fail, than do anything else in the
world. My failures at least might save some other woman's children.
And it's just that much more done for the world than guarding the
valuable life of a Pomeranian, or going to New York for new furs!"
They all laughed, for Mrs. Willard White's latest announcement of
her plans had awakened some comment among them.

"Mother, am I interrupting you?" said a patient voice at this point.
Ellen Burgoyne, rosy, dishevelled, panting, stood some ten feet
away, waiting patiently a chance to enter the conversation.

"No, my darling." Her mother held out a welcoming hand. "Oh, I see,"
she added, glancing at her watch. "It's half-past four. Yes, you can
go up for the gingerbread now. You mustn't carry the milk, you know,
Ellen."