Agatha Christie – Death On The Nile

“I don’t think you ought to speak that way.”

The young man gripped her suddenly by the arm. They were just emerging from the temple into the moonlight.

“Why do you stick being bored by fat old men–and bullied and snubbed by a vicious old harridan?”

“Why, Mr. Ferguson!”

“Haven’t you got any spirit? Don’t you know you’re just as good as she is?” “But I’m not!” Cornelia spoke with honest conviction.

“You’re not as rich–that’s all you mean.”

“No, it isn’t. Cousin Marie’s very very cultured, and-”

“Cultured–” the young man let go of her arm as suddenly as he had taken it.

“That word makes me sick.”

Cornelia looked at him in alarm.

“She doesn’t like you talking to me, does she?” said the young man.

Cornelia blushed and looked embarrassed.

“Why–? Because she thinks I’m not her social equal! Pah–doesn’t that make you see red?”

Cornelia faltered out:

“I wish you wouldn’t get so mad about things.”

“Don’t you realise-and you an American–that every one is born free and equal?”

“They’re not,” said Cornelia with calm certainty.

“My good girl–it’s part of your constitution!”

“Cousin Marie says politicians aren’t gentlemen,” said Cornelia. “And of course people aren’t equal. It doesn’t make sense. I know I’m kind of homely looking and I used to feel mortified about it sometimes, but I’ve got over that. I’d like to have been born elegant and beautiful like Mrs. Doyle, but I wasn’t, so I guess it’s no use worrying.”

“Mrs. Doyle!” said Ferguson with deep contempt. “She’s the sort of woman who ought to be shot as an example.”

Cornelia looked at him anxiously.

“I believe it’s your digestion,” she said kindly. “I’ve got a special kind of pepsin that Cousin Marie tried once. Would you like to try it?” Mr. Ferguson said: “You’re impossible!”

He turned and strode away. Cornelia went on towards the boat. Just as she was crossing on to the gangway, he caught her up once more.

“You’re the nicest person on the boat,” he said. “And mind you remember it.” Blushing with pleasure Cornelia repaired to the observation saloon.

Miss Van Schuyler was conversing with Dr. Bessner–an agreeable eon versation dealing with certain royal patients of his.

Cornelia said guiltily:

“I do hope I haven’t been a long time, Cousin Marie.” Glancing at her watch the old lady snapped:

“You haven’t exactly hurried, my dear. And what have you done with my velvet stole?” Cornelia looked round.

“Shall I see if it’s in the cabin, Cousin Marie?” “Of course it isn’t! I had it just after dinner in here, and I haven’t moved out of the place. It was on that chair.” Cornelia made a desultory search.

“I can’t see it anywhere, Cousin Marie.” “Nonsense,” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Look about.” It was an order such as one might give to a dog and in her doglike fashion Cornelia obeyed. The quiet Mr.

Fanthorp who was sitting at a table near by rose and assisted her. But the stole could not be found.

The day had been such an unusually hot and sultry one that most people had retired early after going ashore to view the temple. The Doyles were playing bridge with Pennington and Race at a table in a corner. The only other occupant of the saloon was Hercule Poirot, who was yawning his head off at a small table near the door.

Miss Van Schuyler, making a Royal Progress bedwards with Cornelia and Miss Bowers in attendance, paused by his chair, and he sprang politely to his feet, stifling a yawn of gargantuan dimensions.

Miss Van Schuyler said: “I have only just realised who you are, M. Poirot. I may tell you that I have heard of you from my old friend Rufus Van Aldin. You must tell me about your cases some time.” With a kindly but condescending nod she passed on.

Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little through their sleepiness, bowed in an exaggerated manner.

Then he yawned once more. He felt heavy and stupid with sleep and could hardly keep his eyes open. He glanced over at the bridge players, absorbed in their game, then at young Fanthorp who was deep in a book. Apart from them the saloon was empty.