“Why, not that I know of,” she began, after a moment, “only rainy days and—tripe. And Spunk isn't a bit like those.”
Bertram chuckled, and even Cyril smiled—though unwillingly.
“All the same,” he reiterated, “I don't like cats.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” lamented Billy; and at the grieved hurt in her dark eyes Bertram came promptly to the rescue.
“Never mind, Miss Billy. Cyril is only ONE of us, and there is all the rest of the Strata besides.”
“The—what?”
“The Strata. You don't know, of course, but listen, and I'll tell you.” And he launched gaily forth into his favorite story.
Billy was duly amused and interested. She laughed and clapped her hands, and when the story was done she clapped them again.
“Oh, what a funny house! And how perfectly lovely that I'm going to live in it,” she cried. Then straight at Mrs. Hartwell she hurled a bombshell. “But where is your stratum?” she demanded. “Mr. Bertram didn't mention a thing about you!”
Cyril said a sharp word under his breath. Bertram choked over a cough. Kate threw into William's eyes a look that was at once angry, accusing, and despairing. Then William spoke.