"Yes," Josie chimed in; "we were hoping you'd join. I want you to, awfully."
"We're both in the choir," Angie explained.
"And all the girls want you to join. Don't they, Angie?"
"Oh, yes, indeed; they're all just dying to meet you."
"I'll have to write and ask," he said abstractedly.
"Why, what do you mean by that?"
Josie's question struck him dumb with consternation. He made curious noises in his throat, and fancied (as was quite possible) that they eyed him in a peculiar fashion. "It's—I mean—a little trouble with my throat," he managed to lie, at length. "I must ask my physician if I may, first."
"Oh, I see," said Josie.
"But," he hastened to change the subject, "you're not drinking, either of you. I sincerely hope it's not so very bad."
Angie replaced her glass, barely tasted. "Do you like it, Josie?"