“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.
I answered Poirot lightly enough.
“She asked me to look her up, but of course I shan’t.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Well—I don’t want to.”
“I see.” He studied me attentively for some minutes. “Yes. I see very well. And you are wise. Stick to what you have said.”