m, a little red of face, but very grave, entered, the
dining-room a moment later, he found the family seated with Spunk snugly
placed between Billy and a plainly disgusted and dismayed brother,
Cyril. The kitten was alert and interested; but he had settled back in
his chair, and was looking as absurdly dignified as the flaring pink bow
would let him.

"Isn't he a dear?" Billy was saying. But Bertram noticed that there was
no reply to this question.

It was a peculiar dinner-party. Only Billy did not feel the strain. Even
Spunk was not entirely happy--his efforts to investigate the table
and its contents were too frequently curbed by his mistress for his
unalloyed satisfaction. William, it is true, made a valiant attempt to
cause the conversation to be general; but he failed dismally. Kate
was sternly silent, while Cyril was openly repellent. Bertram talked,
indeed--but Bertram always talked; and very soon he and Billy had things
pretty much to themselves--that is, with occasional interruptions caused
by Spunk. Spunk had an inquisitive nose or paw for each new dish placed
before his mistress; and Billy spent much time admonishing him. Billy
said she was training him; that it was wonderful what training would do,
and, of course, Spunk WAS little, now.

Dinner was half over when there was a slight diversion created by
Spunk's conclusion to get acquainted with the silent man at his left.
Cyril, however, did not respond to Spunk's advances. So very evident,
indeed, was the man's aversion that Billy turned in amazement.

"Why, Mr. Cyril, don't you see? Spunk is trying to say 'How do you do'?"

"Very likely; but I'm not fond of cats, Miss Billy."

"You're not fond--of--cats!" repeated the girl, as if she could not have
heard aright. "Why not?"

Cyril changed his position.

"Why, just because I--I'm not," he retorted lamely. "Isn't there
anything that--that you don't like?"

Billy considered.

"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