Miss Billy is viewing the Strata." The bare floor echoed to a quick tread, then the door opened and Cyril faced them with a forced smile on his lips.
"Come in--though I fear there will be little--to see," he said.
Bertram assumed a pompous attitude.
"Ladies and gentlemen; you behold here the lion in his lair." "Be still, Bertram," ordered Cyril.
"He is a lion, really," confided Bertram, in a lower voice; "but as he prefers it, we'll just call him 'the Musical Man.'" "I should think I was some sort of music-box that turned with a crank," bristled Cyril.
Bertram grinned.
"A--CRANK, did you say?
Well, even I wouldn't have quite dared to say that, you know!" With an impatient gesture Cyril turned on his heel.

Bertram fell once more into his pompous attitude.
"Before you is the Man's workshop," he orated.

"At your right you see his instruments of tor--I mean, his instruments: a piano, flute, etc.
At your left is the desk with its pens, paper, erasers, ink and postage stamps.

I mention these because there are--er--so few things to mention here.

Beyond, through the open door, one may catch glimpses of still other rooms; but they hold even less than this one holds.