Before she answered him she pointed half angrily, half curiously at Sukey. “What’s that, an’ what’s it starin’ at me for, like as if I had no right to be here?”
The pigeon, to the Judge’s amusement, had resented Airy’s entrance as much as Bethany had done, but instead of retreating she advanced, stepping high, and curling each pink claw with indignation. The look on her high-bred face was delicious, coming from a pigeon. Her greenish-yellow eyes were stony, every feather in her hood quivered and seemed to close more protectingly about the little white head.
Once or twice before, the Judge had seen her act so in the presence of poor people, and he had laid her indignation down to a sense of smell, like that of the average dog, who hates a poor or dirty person. But Airy was a very clean child. The Judge knew what kind of a mother Mrs. Tingsby was, so his theory of smell would scarcely hold good in this case.
Possibly Sukey was sympathizing with Bethany, whom she had got to love devotedly. Anyway, the Judge must answer the child, so he said, kindly, “The bird is a pigeon; she is called a Jacobin.”
“She’s an ugly thing, anyway,” replied Airy, sulkily, “an’ she hates me. Shoo!” and she clapped her hands.
The indignant Sukey, who was no heroine, turned tail and scuttled under Bethany’s table, where the Judge heard a low growl of welcome greet her. Then, his two pets safely disposed of, he looked expectantly at Airy, hoping that she would remember his question as to her motive for calling on him.
She did remember, and, sinking back in her chair with a weary gesture, she said, “I’ve come to tell you that I wants to be a lady.”
“Poor child!” murmured the Judge, involuntarily. Then he tried to realize the enormity of the question thrust upon him.
“Why warn’t I born a lady?” pursued Airy, uncompromisingly. “Why warn’t I born your darter?”
“Well,” said the Judge, hesitatingly, “well, I suppose it pleased Providence to place you in another sphere.”