“But there is so much! There is travel!” “Yes, there is travel. Already I have done not so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think. The climate, they say, is superbl One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of the constantly falling rain.” “Ah! Egypt,” breathed M. Blondin.
“One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel.” “Ah, the sea, it does not agree with you?” Hercule Poirot shook his head and shuddered slightly.
“I, too,” said M. Blondin with sympathy. “Curious the effect it has upon the stomach.” “But only upon certain stomachs! There are people on whom the motion makes no impression whatever. They actually enjoy it!” “An unfairness of the good God,” said M. Blondin.
He shook his head sadly, and brooding on the impious thought, withdrew.
Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters ministered to the table. Toast Melba, butter, an ice-pail, all the adjuncts to a meal of quality.
The negro orchestra broke into an ecstasy of strange discordant noise. London danced.
Hercule Poirot looked on, registering impressions in his neat orderly mind.
How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying themselves . . . whereas a patient endurance seemed to be the sentiment exhibited on their partners’ faces. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant …. Undoubtedly the fat had certain compensations in life . . . a zest–a gustos-denied to those of more fashionable contours.
A good sprinkling of young peoplesome vacant looking–some bored–some definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happiness–youth the time of greatest vulnerability!
His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair, tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in a perfect rhythm of happiness. Happiness in the place, the hour, and in each other.
The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore the couple returned to their table close by Poirot.
The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face as it was lifted laughing to her companion.
There was something else beside laughter in her eyes.
Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
“She cares too much, that little one,” he said to himself. “It is not safe. No, it is not safe.” And then a word caught his ear. Egypt.
Their voices came to him clearly–the girl’s.young, fresh, arrogant with just a trace of soft-sounding foreign Rs, and the man’s pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.
“I’m not counting my chickens before they’re hatched, Simon. I tell you Linnet won’t let us down!” “I might let her down.” “Nonsense it’s just the right job for you.” “As a matter of fact I think it is . . . I haven’t really any doubts as to my capability. And I mean to make good for your sake!” The girl laughed softly, a laugh of pure happiness.
“We’ll wait three months–to make sure you don’t get the sack. And then–” “And then I’ll endow thee with my worldly goods–that’s the hang of it, isn’t it?” “And as I say, we’ll go to Egypt for our honeymoon. Damn the expense! I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt all my life. The Nile and the pyramids and the sand…” He said, his voice slightly indistinct: “We’ll see it together, Jackie… together. Won’t it be marvellous?” “I wonder. Will it be as marvellous to you as it is to me? Do you really care as much as I do?” Her voice was suddenly sharp–her eyes dilated–almost with fear.
The man’s answer came with an equal sharpness: “Don’t be absurd, Jackie.” But the girl repeated: “I wonder…” Then she shrugged hr shoulders: “Let’s dance.” Hercule Poirot murmured to himself: “Un qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer. Yes, I wonder too.” vii Joanna Southwood said:
“And suppose he’s a terrible tough?”
Linnet shook her head.
“Oh, he won’t be. I can trust Jacqueline’s taste.”
Joanna murmured:
“Ah, but people don’t run true to form in love affairs.”
Linnet shook her head impatiently. Then she changed the subject. “I must go and see Mr. Pierce about those plans.” “Plans?”