"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 tell you."
And he launched gaily forth into his favorite story.