But maybe he
isn't a dog, anyhow. He--er--sounds something like a parrot to me."
Cyril rose to his feet abruptly. He had eaten almost no dinner.
"Very well," he said coldly. "But please remember that I hold you
responsible, Bertram. Whether it's a dog, or a parrot, or--or a monkey,
I shall expect you to keep Spunk down-stairs. This adopting into the
family an unknown boy seems to me very absurd from beginning to end.
But if you and William will have it so, of course I've nothing to say.
Fortunately my rooms are at the TOP of the house," he finished, as he
turned and left the dining-room.
For a moment there was silence. The brows of the younger man were
uplifted quizzically.
"I'm afraid Cyril is bothered," murmured William then, in a troubled
voice.
Bertram's face changed. Stern lines came to his boyish mouth.
"He is always bothered--with anything, lately."
The elder man sighed.
"I know, but with his talent--"
"'Talent'! Great Scott!" cut in Bertram. "Half the world has talent of
one sort or another; but that doesn't necessarily make them unable
to live with any one else! Really, Will, it's becoming serious--about
Cyril. He's getting to be, for all the world, like those finicky old
maids that that young namesake of yours wrote about. He'll make us
whisper and walk on tiptoe yet!"
The other smiled.
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