s too big for her head! This parent business is
too much of a gamble. If you could go pick out a nice blue-eyed,
pink-and-white, ready-made infant----"

"I suppose you should have picked out a pink-and-white ready-made
husband, if you wanted that kind," Wally interposed.

"Well, I never would have picked out Isabelle."

"After all, you're her mother, Max," he began.

"Look here, Wally, don't begin on that mother stuff. I didn't want her
any more than you did, and we were fools to have her. That may be
abnormal, unnatural, and all the rest of it, but it's the truth, and
there are lots of other women just like me. You can't lump us, any more
than you can lump men. We don't all of us have the maternal instinct,
not by a long shot."

"Don't talk like that, Max; it's not nice."

"There you go. It's all right for you not to want a child, but it's
indecent in me. That's a man-made idea, and it won't work any more. Lots
of us don't find motherhood either satisfying or interesting, and we're
getting courage enough to say so."

"The less you say about it, the better," counselled Wally.

"To get back to Isabelle, she's here, and she's just as much your
responsibility as she is mine."

"Being here isn't her fault, poor kid. Seems as if somebody ought
to--well--love her," he finished in embarrassment.

"Go ahead. I've no objection."

Mrs. Bryce returned to her book.

"By Jove, Max, you're hard as rocks."

"Oh, get out, Wally. I'm not interested in your conversation. Go liven
up the party."

"Why don't you try a younger governess, for a change?" he went on,
undeterred. "Wilder is so old and sort of set."

Mrs. Bryce closed her book with irritated finality.

"Wally, I will give you a chance at running our darling child for the
rest of this summer. I declare a strike! You get her governesses, you
donate your society to her. You've got nothing to do. She may keep you
out of mischief."

"Oh, I say, I don't want to butt in, I only thought----"

"She's yours. I'm through until September first."

There was an uproar from below, louder than before. Wally looked out.

"I wonder what they're up to," he said.

A maid, red and flustered, appeared at the door.

"Oh, Mrs. Bryce, please come down to the party. Isabelle ran away with
Patsy and we've just found her."

Mrs. Bryce, oblivious of her costume, followed Mr. Bryce and the maid
down the stairs, as fast as possible. Evidently a crisis had occurred
below. All the