An unexpected sound broke in upon his meditations. For Mr. Clearwater had taken from the pocket of his tweed coat a little flute, in two pieces, which he had screwed together. He was blowing it clear of the dust and grains of tobacco which it had collected, and it gave out a low, clear note.
“It’s summer and harvest time,” thought Constance, “and the world is very beautiful. If only it were not so terribly hot!”
At the sound of the flute the others looked up, and with one accord stopped working. Mr. Clearwater, having cleared the instrument to his satisfaction, blew three or four notes rapidly to try it, running his fingers up and down the stops. Then, putting it to his lips again, he blew in good earnest, and began to dance, raising his feet with odd ungainly steps. Having played a few
