The chauffeur thanked him, and started the car again. My eyes were fascinated by the girl who still stood, with one hand on the gate, watching us. I am an admirer of beauty, and here was one whom nobody could have passed without remark. Very tall, with the proportions of a young goddess, her uncovered golden head gleaming in the sunlight, I swore to myself that she was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. As we swung up the rough road, I turned my head to look after her.
“By Jove, Poirot,” I exclaimed, “did you see that young goddess.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
“Ça commence!” he murmured. “Already you have seen a goddess!”
“But, hang it all, wasn’t she?”
“Possibly. I did not remark the fact.”
“Surely you noticed her?”
“Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a goddess. I—” he hesitated.
“Yes?”
“I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,” said Poirot gravely.