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Tom rolled up the Pritchard driveway in the brown Renault. The sun had not set and it was still warm. Tom wore a summer jacket and trousers, a shirt with no tie.
    “Oh, Mr. Ripley, welcome!” said Janice Pritchard, who was standing on her porch.
    “Evening,” said Tom, smiling. He presented her with the red dahlias. “Just cut. From my place.”
    “Oh, how lovely! I’ll get a vase. Please come in. David!”
    Tom went into a short foyer that led to a square white living room which he remembered. The almost ugly fireplace was unchanged, its wood painted white with an unfortunate dubonnet trim. Tom had an impression of false rusticity in all the furniture except for the sofa and armchair, and then David Pritchard came in, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He was in shirtsleeves.
    “Good evening, Mr. Ripley! Welcome. I am slaving over canapes.”
    Janice laughed dutifully. She was thinner than Tom had thought, and wore pale blue cotton slacks and a black and red blouse with long sleeves and ruffles at her neck and wrists.
    Her light brown hair was rather a pleasant apricot color, cut short and combed so that it fluffed around her head.
    “Now—what would you like to drink?” asked David, peering politely at Tom through his black-rimmed glasses.
    “There’s everything—probably,” said Janice.
    “Um-m—gin and tonic?” asked Tom.
    “No sooner said than done. Maybe you’d like to show Mr. Ripley around the house, hon,” David said.
    “Of course. If he’d like.” Janice tilted her narrow head in a pixie like way that Tom had noticed before. It gave her eyes a skewed look that was vaguely disturbing.
    They looked into the dining room behind the living room (kitchen to the left), where Tom’s impression of horrid made-yesterday antique was confirmed by the heavy dining-table and the high-backed chairs around it, with seats that looked as uncomfortable as church pews. The stairs up were on one side of the gaudy fireplace, and he climbed them with Janice, who was talking all the while.
    Two bedrooms, a bathroom in between, and that was it. Wallpaper of a modest floral pattern everywhere. One picture in the hall, also floral, of the kind one saw in hotel rooms.
    “You’re renting,” Tom said as they went down the stairs.
    “Oh, yes. Not sure we want to live here. Or in this house—but just look at the reflection now! We left the side shutters wide open so you could see.”
    “Yes—isn’t that pretty!” From the stairs, just below eye-level with the ceiling, Tom could see rippling gray and white designs created on the Pritchards’ ceiling by the pond on the lawn.
    “Of course, when the wind blows it’s even more—lively!” Janice said with a shrill giggle.
    “And you bought this furniture yourself?”
    “Ye-es. But some of it’s lent—by the people we’re renting from. The dining-room suite, for example. A little heavy, I think.”
    Tom made no comment.
    David Pritchard had the drinks ready on the sturdy made-yesterday antique coffee table. The canapes were melted cheese bits stuck with a toothpick. There were also stuffed olives.
    Tom took the armchair; both the Pritchards sat on the sofa, which was covered, like the armchair, in a chintz like flowered material, the least offensive items in the house.
    “Cheers!” said David, apronless now, lifting his glass. “To our new neighbors!”
    “Cheers,” said Tom, and sipped.
    “We’re sorry your wife couldn’t come,” said David.
    “So is she. Another time. How are you liking—just what is it you do at instead ? ” Tom asked.
    “I’m taking courses in marketing. All aspects. Marketing and how to keep track of results in same.” David Pritchard had a clear and direct way of speaking.
    “All aspects!” said Janice, and giggled again, nervously. She was drinking a pinkish something, which Tom supposed was kir, a mild concoction with wine.
    “The courses are in French?” asked Tom.
    “French and English. My French isn’t bad.