“It’s a mystery,” I said. “I see how you can be a little bad, but I don’t see how you can be so very bad. You knew Mrs. Martin would give you some good taps when you got back—and you pretend to be so fond of her.”
“I just love her,” said Billie warmly. “She may beat me all day if she likes.”
“She doesn’t like,” I said, “and you know it. She hates to give pain.”
Billie curled her lip in a dog smile. “You don’t understand, Dicky-Dick. You were brought up in a proper way, and it’s no trouble for you to mind, and then, anyway, it’s easier for a bird to be good than a dog.”
“Easier!” I exclaimed. “Don’t I want to disobey? I’m crazy to go next door and see that little canary, Daisy, in her tiny cage, but our Mary and Mrs. Martin warned me about the treacherous cat in the house.”
“So you have troubles,” said Billie.
“Yes, I have—and mine are worse than yours—it’s dreadful to be lonely.”
“Lonely, in a nice, lively house like this; with plenty of animals and human beings about you, and that fine bird-room upstairs to visit! Dicky-Dick, you are ungrateful.”
“You don’t understand about the bird-room,” I said. “I’ve got weaned away from it. I can’t live there steadily. The birds are suspicious of me, and will not let any of the young
ones play with me. I really have no bird society.”