“All about it?” She was answering Ferry’s question.  “Why, I don’t need to tell you.  You know, without having been there, exactly how things went.”

“More or less, probably.  Was it very hot?”

“Stifling!  How could it be anything else on an August night?  Janet vows her fingers burned on the keys.  But she played beautifully, of course, and the bishop had a little interval of being glad he was there.  Poor man—­I wonder if anything can be warmer than a clerical waistcoat.”

“Nothing, except a clerical collar, I believe.  Did Constance have a bad time of it, too?  She doesn’t like singing in hot rooms.”

“She sang like an angel.  The bishop opened his eyes and stared at her all through, and applauded so vigorously it must have made him several degrees warmer.  But she deserved it.”

“I don’t doubt it.  And what did you and Miss Josephine do?”

“Stood about and tried to look pleased and happy.  My gloves felt like furs and a soapstone, and I couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say to anybody.”

Ferry laughed.  “I wonder if anybody ever does say anything intelligent at such entertainments.  Did Mr. Neil Chase himself rise to the occasion and play the genial host as he should?”

“I think he mostly spent the evening sitting on the porch rail at the farthest corner away from the drawing-room.”

“The memory of the fellows lounging comfortably on your porch undoubtedly made his role seem the harder by contrast.  I saw a longing look in his eye as he drove away, and had an idea he might be back.  But I suppose he couldn’t get out of it.”

“No—­their ‘country home’ isn’t much like our ‘country home.’  Oh, isn’t this air delicious?  Do you suppose Constance would be willing to sing in it?  Wouldn’t it sound like a part of the summer night out here?”

They were bowling along the quiet country road, only the chirp of many locusts, the rumble of the wheels, and the sound of their own voices to break the stillness.  Ferry leaned forward.  Constance was at the farther end of the wagon, between Jarvis and Max.

“Constance!” he called softly.  Sally thought she would not hear, but she did.  Ferry’s voice, even in its subdued tones, possessed that carrying quality which is the peculiar acquirement of the trained public speaker.

“Yes, Don,” she called back, and everybody stopped talking.  People had a way of stopping other talk to listen when either of these two had anything to say.

“Here’s a person, at this end of the chariot, who wonders if people with drawing-room voices ever venture to test them in the open air.”

“What do you think about it?”

“That one of them will, if we ask her.  Therefore, we ask.”

Constance considered an instant.  “Will you and Janet sing ‘My Garden’ with me—­especially for Sally?”