13. The Girl with the Anxious Eyes

           Welunchedwithanexcellentappetite.IunderstoodwellenoughthatPoirotdidnotwishtodiscussthetragedywherewecouldsoeasilybeoverheard.But,asisusualwhenonetopicfillsthemindtotheexclusionofeverythingelse,noothersubjectofinterestseemedtopresentitself.Forawhileweateinsilence,andthenPoirotobservedmaliciously:

           “Ehbien!Andyourindiscretions!Yourecountthemnot?”

           Ifeltmyselfblushing.

           “Oh,youmeanthismorning?”Iendeavouredtoadoptatoneofabsolutenonchalance.

           ButIwasnomatchforPoirot.Inaveryfewminuteshehadextractedthewholestoryfromme,hiseyestwinklingashedidso.

           “Tiens!Astoryofthemostromantic.Whatishername,thischarmingyounglady?”

           IhadtoconfessthatIdidnotknow.

           “Stillmoreromantic!ThefirstrencontreinthetrainfromParis,thesecondhere.Journeysendinlovers’meetings,isnotthatthesaying?”

           “Don’tbeanass,Poirot.”

           “YesterdayitwasMademoiselleDaubreuil,todayitisMademoiselle—Cinderella!DecidedlyyouhavetheheartofaTurk,Hastings!Youshouldestablishaharem!”

           “It’sallverywelltoragme.MademoiselleDaubreuilisaverybeautifulgirl,andIdoadmireherimmensely—Idon’tmindadmittingit.Theother’snothing—don’tsupposeIshalleverseeheragain.Shewasquiteamusingtotalktojustforarailwayjourney,butshe’snotthekindofgirlIshouldevergetkeenon.”

           “Why?”

           “Well—itsoundssnobbishperhaps—butshe’snotalady,notinanysenseoftheword.”

           Poirotnoddedthoughtfully.