“And then—oh, don’t you see it—don’t you see why we must fight—fight—fight for Angela, don’t you see why her wings are a sacred trust with us? Sometime, there will be born here——Clara,” she turned her look on Clara’s excited face, “it may be the baby that’s coming to you in the spring—sometime there will be born here a boy with wings. Then more and more often they will come until there are as many winged men as winged women. What will become of our girl-children then if their mates fly as well as walk away from them. There is only one way out. And there is only one duty before us—to learn to walk that we may teach our daughters to walk—to preserve our daughter’s wings that they may teach their sons to fly.”
“But, Julia,” Peachy exclaimed, after an instant of dead silence. There was a stir of wonder, flutelike in her voice, a ripple of wonder, flamelike on her face. “Our feet are too fine, too soft. Ralph says that mine are only toy feet, that no creature could really get along on them.”
She kicked the loose sandals off. Tiny, slim, delicately chiseled, her feet were of a china whiteness, except where, at the tips, the toes showed a rose-flush or where, over the instep, the veins meandered in a blue network.
“Of course Peachy’s feet are smaller than mine,” Lulu said wistfully. “But even my workaday little pads wouldn’t carry me many steps.” From under her skirts appeared a pair of capable-looking, brown feet, square, broad but little and satin-smooth.
“Mine are quite useless,” Chiquita sighed. “Oh, why did I let myself grow so big?” There was a note of despair in her velvet voice. “It’s almost as if there were no muscles in them.” She pulled aside her scarlet draperies. In spite of her increasing size, her dusky feet had kept their aristocratic Andalusian lines.
“And I’ve always done just the things that would make it impossible for me to walk,” said Clara in a discouraged tone. “I’ve always taken as much care of my feet as my hands—they’re like glass.” This was true. In the pale-gold of her skin, the pink nails glittered brilliantly.
“And think of your own feet, Julia,” Lulu exclaimed. “They’re like alabaster. Pete says that from the artist’s point of view, they’re absolutely perfect. You don’t imagine for an instant that you could take a step on them, unsupported?”
“No?” said Julia. “No?” With a swift leap of her body, she stood on the feet in question. And as the other stared, stupefied, she walked with the splendid, swinging gait of an Amazon once, twice, thrice around the Playground.
“Come, Angela!” Peachy called. “Come, baby!”
Angela started to spread her pinions. “Don’t fly, baby,” Peachy called. “Walk!”