And we live by an evil love-will.

Alas, the great spontaneous mode is abrogated.

There is no lovely great flux of vital sympathy, no rich rejoicing of pride into isolation and independence.
There is no reverence for great traditions of parenthood.

No, there is substitute for everything--life-substitute--just as we have butter-substitute, and meat-substitute, and sugar-substitute, and leather-substitute, and silk-substitute, so we have life-substitute.
We have beastly benevolence, and foul good-will, and stinking charity, and poisonous ideals.
The poor modern brat, shoved horribly into life by an effort of will, and shoved up towards manhood by every appliance that can be applied to it, especially the appliance of the maternal will, it is really too pathetic to contemplate.

The only thing that prevents us wringing our hands is the remembrance that the little devil will grow up and beget other similar little devils of his own, to invent more aeroplanes and hospitals and germ-killers and food-substitutes and poison gases.