that really happened ?

"Only for a short space of time," he

replied.

Dr. Burton passed tactfully from the

subject of Achille Poirot.

"People should be more careful how

they name their children," he ruminated.

"I've got godchildren. I know. Blanche,

one of 'em is called--dark as a gipsy!

Then there's Deirdre, Deirdre of the

Sorrows --she's turned out merry as a

grig. As for young Patience, she might as

well have been named Impatience and

be done with it! And Diana--well, Diana --" the old Classical scholar shuddered.

"Weighs twelve stone now--and

she's only fifteen! They say it's puppy fat

--but it doesn't look that way to me. Diana! They wanted to call her Helen, but I did put my foot down there. Knowing

2

what her father and mother looked like!

And her grandmother for that matter!

I tried hard for Martha or Dorcas or something

sensible--but it was no good-waste of breath. Rum people, parents...." He began to wheeze gently --his small

fat face crinkled up.

Poirot looked at him inquiringly.

"Thinking of an imaginary conversation.

Your mother and the late Mrs.

Holmes, sitting sewing little garments or

knitting: 'Achille, Hercule, Sherlock, Mycroft. . . .' " Poirot failed to share his friend's amusement.

"What I understand you to mean is,

that in physical appearance I do not

resemble a Hercules ?"

Dr. Burton's eyes swept over Hercule

Poirot, over his small neat person attired

in striped trousers, correct black jacket

and natty bow tie, swept up from his

patent leather shoes to his egg-shaped

head and the immense moustache that

adorned his upper lip.

"Frankly, Poirot," said Dr. Burton, "you

don't! I gather," he added, "that you've

never had much time to study the Classics ?"

"That is so."

"Pity. Pity. You've missed a lot. Everyone

should be made to study the Classics

if I had my way."

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"Eh bien, I have got on very well without

them."

"Got on! Got on! It's not a question of

getting on. That's the wrong view

altogether. The Classics aren't a ladder

leading to quick success like a modem

correspondence course! It's not a man's

working hours that are important--it's

his leisure hours. That's the mistake we all

make. Take yourself now, you're getting

on, you'll be wanting to get out of things, to take things easy --what are you going to do then with your leisure hours ?"

Poirot was ready with his reply.

"I am going to attend --seriously --to

the cultivation of vegetable marrows."

Dr. Burton was taken aback.

"Vegetable marrows ? What d'yer mean ?

Those great swollen green things that

taste of water ?"

"Ah," Poirot spoke enthusiastically. "But

that is the whole point of it. They need not taste of water." 4

"Oh! I know--sprinkle 'em with

cheese, or minced onion or white sauce."

"No, no--you are in error. It is my

idea that the actual flavour of the marrow

itself can be improved. It can be given,"

he screwed up his eyes, "a bouquet --"