"Have I?" There was no mirth in his sudden wide smile. "I have lived in the world long enough, M. Poirot, to know that all women are pretty much alike." His face softened suddenly. "All save one."
He met Poirot's gaze defiantly. A look of alertness crept into his eyes, then faded again. "That one," he said, and jerked his head in the direction of Cap Martin.
"Ah!" said Poirot.
This quiescence was well calculated to provoke the impetuous temperament of the other.
"I know what you are going to say," said Derek rapidly, "the kind of life I have led, the fact that I am not worthy of her. You will say that I have no right to think even of such a thing. You will say that it is not a case of giving a dog a bad name—I know that it is not decent to be speaking like this with my wife dead only a few days, and murdered at that."
He paused for breath, and Poirot took advantage of the pause to remark in his plaintive tone:
"But, indeed, I have not said anything at all."
"But you will."
"Eh?" said Poirot.
"You will say that I have no earthly chance of marrying Katherine."