“A nice lot you are,” Neil Chase was exclaiming outside, as he drove up to the porch and eyed the male figures occupying its comfortable recesses.  Max reposed in a hammock; Mr. Timothy Rudd swayed to and fro in a rocker, reading the evening paper by the sunset light; Alec and Bob, sitting on the steps, were playing a game of some sort; and Jarvis lay stretched at full length on a rug, his arms beneath his head, luxuriously resting after his bath and change of work clothes for fresh flannels, enjoying the sense of virtue earned by having hoed many rows of potatoes with a vigorous arm.

“A nice lot,” Neil went on.  “We have it in for you particularly, Jarve.  Max never was much of a society chap, but you once could be depended upon to do your duty like a man.  Bob, run in and see if those girls are ready.  Dorothy won’t be easy till she sees them.  One thing I know—­you’ll soon tire of this playing at farming.  To be the real thing you fellows ought to work till the sun goes down, doing ‘chores.’  I’ll wager a fiver you come in and get your bath every night before dinner, eh?”

“We certainly do,” Jarvis laughed.

“And you don’t sit down in your shirt-sleeves?”

“Well—­hardly.”

“You’re not the real thing—­never will be.  Look at those girls!” He pulled off his straw hat as two figures appeared in the doorway.  “Nice farmers’ folks they are!”

“We’re glad you think we’re nice,” responded Sally, gathering her white skirts about her.  “Jo, be careful—­don’t get that peaches-and-cream frill against the running board.”

Jarvis’s reposeful posture had become an active one, and he took care that neither peach-coloured skirts nor white ones fluttered against anything on the outside of the car that might soil them.

“Here come Constance and Janet.  Aren’t they imposing society ladies now?” and Sally stood up to wave at the two coming through the hedge, accompanied by Janet’s brother.  Ferry had an eye upon the porch and meant to spend the evening consoling his friends for the absence of the usual feminine contingent.

“You exquisite person—­may I venture to sit beside you?” whispered Sally, as Constance, in trailing pale gray with bands of violet velvet, a shimmering cloak of the same hues enveloping her like a mist, took the place beside her.  “This is the singer, not my friend Constance.  I’m—­just—­a little—­afraid of you!”

“Nonsense!” Constance’s warm hand caught Sally’s beneath the cloak.  “You know I don’t like show singing—­or anything that goes with it.”

“Don’t forget your promise—­” Josephine called back, as the big car, with its rainbow-tinted load rolled away.

An answering shout from the porch, accompanied by the waving of several arms, conveyed assurance.

“What promise?” asked Janet, turning to the others.  Being the smallest of the party she occupied one of the folding seats which enable a roomy tonneau to hold five people.