who promptly forgot all about her. At eighteen,
Billy, being left quite alone in the world, wrote to
`Uncle William' and asked to come and live with
him.''

``Well?''

``But it wasn't well. William was a forty-year-
old widower who lived with two younger brothers,
an old butler, and a Chinese cook in one of those
funny old Beacon Street houses in Boston. `The
Strata,' Bertram called it. Bright boy--Bertram!''

``The Strata!''

``Yes. I wish you could see that house,
Arkwright. It's a regular layer cake. Cyril--he's
the second brother; must be thirty-four or five
now--lives on the top floor in a rugless, curtainless,
music-mad existence--just a plain crank.
Below him comes William. William collects things
--everything from tenpenny nails to teapots, I
should say, and they're all there in his rooms.
Farther down somewhere comes Bertram. He's
_the_ Bertram Henshaw, you understand; the artist.''

``Not the `Face-of-a-Girl' Henshaw?''

``The same; only of course four years ago he
wasn't quite so well known as he is now. Well, to