very beautiful girl, and I do admire her immensely—I don’t mind admitting it. The other’s nothing—I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again. She was quite amusing to talk to just for a railway journey, but she’s not the kind of girl I should ever get keen on.”
“Why?”
“Well—it sounds snobbish perhaps—but she’s not a lady, not in any sense of the word.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. There was less raillery in his voice as he asked, “You believe, then, in birth and breeding?”
“I may be old-fashioned, but I certainly don’t believe in marrying out of one’s class. It never answers.”
“I agree with you, mon ami. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it is as you say. But there is always the hundredth time! Still, that does not arise, as you do not propose to see the lady again.”
His last words were almost a question, and I was aware of the sharpness with which he darted a glance at me. And before my eves, writ large in letters of fire, I saw the words Hôtel du Phare, and I heard again her voice saying, Come and look me up,” and my own answering with empressement: “I will.”
Well, what of it? I had meant to go at the time. But since then, I had had time to reflect. I did not like the girl. Thinking it over in cold blood, I came definitely to the conclusion that I disliked her intensely. I had got hauled over the coals for foolishly gratifying her morbid curiosity, and I had not the least wish to see her again.
I answered Poirot lightly enough.
“She asked me to look her up, but of course I shan’t.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Well—I don’t want to.”
“I see.” He studied me attentively for some minutes. “Yes. I see very well. And you are wise. Stick to what you have said.”
“That seems to be your invariable advice,” I remarked, rather piqued.
103
