“And there may be even a kind of truth-telling which is essentially untrue; I mean truth told maliciously, truth told for the purpose of hurting. That makes an untrue relation between people, even though it be true in fact; just as the ugly picture, truly representing an ugly thing in an ugly way, does not seem true.” Virginia said: “As if one woman said to another woman: ‘I saw your husband drunk last night,’ and the other woman knew it already. It would be quite true, but unnecessary.” “Exactly.” I spoke of the importance of praise and encouragement to others, and of kind, true criticism. At first they all protested that they did not like over-much praise. No, I said, not over-much, nor praise alone; I hated to be “damned with faint praise,” but I loved praise and blame combined in such measure, that I felt the thing done was worth doing, and yet saw where it was wrong, and how it might be righted. I said all teachers ought to praise and blame in this fashion—never forgetting the praise. “They don’t have time for it in school,” said Ruth. “Ruth,” I answered her, “just for a teacher of small children, such encouraging critical power is most necessary.” “Yes,” she said, “I know. I mean to have it.” I went on: “When I criticize a child’s drawing, for instance, and find six wrong lines in it, and one right line, I will insist on the worth of that right line, and show how the other six can and ought to be made equally good. One can always point to the wrong, without hurting, when one insists on the right.” And now we passed to a difficult and engrossing subject: what things are worth while in personal social life. At this period of life it concerns the girls chiefly; but it could not be skipped for that reason. And the boys were interested listeners. I spoke again of “prettiness” in art. Did they remember? Virginia said, those painted merely prettily who tried to please the crowd for the sake of money or applause. Yes, I answered, they tried to please those who could not understand them or truly judge them. And so there is a prettiness of manner and life which appeals to the stranger and acquaintance, but does not win the friend; the merely social prettiness, that has no true worth. What did I mean? asked Florence. “I mean,” I said, “a mixing of values—giving up what is worth more, for what is worth less, and, usually, because we don’t realize what we are doing. For instance, ever so many will go to much greater trouble to please acquaintances than friends, and even ask their friends to ‘let them off’ for the sake of their acquaintances.” “That is,” said Florence, “because we know our friends will forgive us.” “Yes,” I answered, “and it is a poor reason, for finally we will not have any to forgive us.” “I know a girl,” said Marian, “who has ever so many acquaintances, and no friends.”