“If we only proceeded on lines of agreement we should come to an immediate standstill. Let’s thrash out the matter. To my thinking, the father should respect the child more than the child should respect the father. It must be so. The poor little devil comes into the world through no impulse of its own. It had no choice in the matter. Its coming is impressed—it is conscripted into being—that’s indisputable. Then, surely to goodness, it is up to us to give it, as it were, the Freedom of the City—the freedom of the fields, and every possible latitude for expansion and self-expression. To do less were an intolerable injustice. Our only excuse for producing life is that we may admire its beauty—not that it may admire ours.” “This is wild talk,” began Mr. Rendall. But Clem was too advanced to heed interruption. “The most degrading thing you can hear a man say to his child is, ‘After all I’ve done for you.’ It should be, ‘Have I done enough for you? Have I made good?’ That is the straightforward attitude; but to bring a child into the world against its will and to force it along lines that lead away from its own inclination is dastardly.” He turned suddenly to Mrs. Rendall. “It must be so wonderful to be a mother, so glorious to have accepted that mighty responsibility.” Mrs. Rendall fumbled at the threading of her silk and dropped her scissors to the floor. As he stooped to pick them up Clem continued: “To know that within oneself there lies the power to fashion a body for those tiny souls that flicker out there in the beyond.” “Clem!” Mr. Rendall tapped his foot warningly. “Ah, Robert, we know nothing of these matters—they are beyond our ken.” “A very good reason for not discussing them. The subject seems to be rather—” “Rather what?” “Distasteful.” “Is it? Good God! And yet we discuss our colds in the most polite society, and bear witness to their intensity by quoting the number of handkerchiefs we’ve used. We have no shame in trumpeting our petty thoughts of the day, but that faint bugle-call that sounds in the night and summons us—” “I think supper is waiting,” said Mrs. Rendall, rising to her feet. “I suppose you will be staying.” “Delighted,” said Clem, affably. “And I’ll bring the bugle-call with me.” “I trust you won’t forget that servants will be in the room,” remarked Mr. Rendall. “We can send ’em out to ask my cabby to wait.” Clem did not delay his departure over long. His conversational tide was somewhat dammed by the cold mutton and cold potatoes that formed the basis of his brother’s hospitality. He allowed Mr. Rendall to do the talking, and was oppressed by a great pity for his little nephew, who had to listen to such irritable and melancholy matter at every meal.