“Still more romantic! The first _rencontre___ in the train from Paris,
the second here. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, is not that the
saying?”
“Don’t be an ass, Poirot.”
“Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is
Mademoiselle—Cinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk,
Hastings! You should establish a harem!”
“It’s all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a very
beautiful girl, and I do admire her immensely—I don’t mind admitting
it. The other’s nothing—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 eyes, 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.