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!”

Obediently, Angela dropped her wings, sank.  Her feet, shell-like, pinky-soft, padded the ground.  She tried to balance, but she swayed and fell.

“No matter, darling!” Peachy called cheerily, “Try again!”

Angela heroically pulled herself up.  She made a few uncertain steps, but she stumbled with every move.

Honey-Boy and Peterkin came running up to her side; Junior, grinning happily, waddled behind a long way in the rear.  “Angela’s trying to walk!” the boys cried.  “Angela’s trying to walk!” They capered with amusement.  “Oh, isn’t she funny?  Look at the girl trying to walk!”

The tears spurted from Angela’s eyes.  Her lips quivered.  Her wings shot up straight.

“Don’t mind what the boys say, Angela!” Peachy called.  “Put your wings down!  Keep right on walking!”

Again Angela’s pinions dropped.  Again she took a few steps.  This time she fell to her knees.  But she pulled herself up, sped onward, fell again, and again.  She had reached the stones that bounded the sand.  When she arose this last time, her foot was, bleeding.

“Keep on walking, baby!” Peachy commanded inflexibly.  But there was a rain of tears on her check.