But I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted the whole story from me, his eyes twinkling as he did so.
“Tiens! A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this charming young lady?”
I had to confess that I did not know.
“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: