Her dear good Florence is devoted to her and she told me herself how happy she was to have got such nice tenants."
Here Mr. Pye made a little bow.
"She told me she thought she had been most fortunate."
"The house," I said, "has a very soothing atmosphere."
Mr. Pye darted a quick glance at me.
"Really?
You feel that?
Now, that's very interesting.
I wondered, you know.
Yes, I wondered."
"What do you mean, Mr. Pye?" asked Joanna.
Mr. Pye spread out his plump hands.
"Nothing, nothing.
One wondered, that is all.
I do believe in atmosphere, you know.
People's thoughts and feelings. They give their impression to the walls and the furniture."
I did not speak for a moment or two.
I was looking around me and wondering how I would describe the atmosphere of Prior's Lodge.
It seemed to me that the curious thing was that it hadn't any atmosphere!
That was really very remarkable.
I reflected on this point so long that I heard nothing of the conversation going on between Joanna and her host.
I was recalled to myself, however, by hearing Joanna uttering farewell preliminaries.
I came out of my dream and added my quota.
We all went out into the hall.
As we came toward the front door a letter came through the box and fell on the mat.
"Afternoon post," murmured Mr. Pye as he picked it up.
"Now, my dear young people, you will come again, won't you?
Such a pleasure to meet some broader minds, if you understand me, in this peaceful backwater where nothing ever happens."
Shaking hands with us twice over, he helped me with exaggerated care into the car.
Joanna took the wheel; she negotiated with some care the circular sweep around a plot of unblemished grass, then with a straight drive ahead, she raised a hand to wave goodbye to our host where he stood on the steps of the house.
I leaned forward to do the same.
But our gesture of farewell went unheeded.
Mr. Pye had opened his mail.
He was standing staring down at the open sheet in his hand.
Joanna had described him once as a plump pink cherub.
He was still plump, but he was not looking like a cherub now.
His face was a dark congested purple, contorted with rage and surprise. Yes, and fear, too.
And at that moment I realized that there had been something familiar about the look of that envelope.
I had not realized it at the time - indeed, it had been one of those things that you note unconsciously without knowing that you do note them.
"Goodness," said Joanna, "what's bitten the poor pet?"
"I rather fancy," I said, "that it's the Hidden Hand again."
She turned an astonished face toward me and the car swerved.
"Careful, wench," I said.
Joanna refixed her attention on the road.
She was frowning.
"You mean a letter like the one you got."
"That's my guess."
"What is this place?" asked Joanna.
"It looks the most innocent, sleepy, harmless little bit of England you can imagine."
"Where, to quote Mr. Pye, nothing ever happens," I cut in.