I believe that a well-known anecdote exists to the effect that a young
writer, determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and
original enough to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of
editors, penned the following sentence:
“‘Hell!’ said the Duchess.”
Strangely enough, this tale of mine opens in much the same fashion.
Only the lady who gave utterance to the exclamation was not a Duchess!
It was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in
Paris and was returning by the morning service to London where I was
still sharing rooms with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective,
Hercule Poirot.
The Calais express was singularly empty—in fact, my own compartment
held only one other traveller. I had made a somewhat hurried departure
from the hotel and was busy assuring myself that I had duly collected
all my traps when the train started. Up till then I had hardly noticed
my companion, but I was now violently recalled to the fact of her
existence. Jumping up from her seat, she let down the window and stuck
her head out, withdrawing it a moment later with the brief and forcible
ejaculation “Hell!”
Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I have
no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to
night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a
Billingsgate fishwoman blush!
I looked up now, frowning slightly, into a pretty, impudent face,
surmounted by a rakish little red hat. A thick cluster of black curls
hid each ear. I judged that she was little more than seventeen, but her
face was covered with powder, and her lips were quite impossibly
scarlet.
Nothing abashed, she returned my glance, and executed an expressive
grimace.
“Dear me, we’ve shocked the kind gentleman!” she observed to an
imaginary audience. “I apologize for my language! Most unladylike, and
all that, but Oh, Lord, there’s reason enough for it! Do you know I’ve
lost my only sister?”
“Really?” I said politely. “How unfortunate.”
“He disapproves!” remarked the lady. “He disapproves utterly—of me, and
my sister—which last is unfair, because he hasn’t seen her!”