She said:

‘Good morning, M. Poirot,’ with such enthusiasm as to arouse his doubts.

He felt that she could not possibly be quite as pleased to see him as she appeared to be. For she did not, after all, know him very well. And though Hercule Poirot was a conceited little man where his profession was concerned, he was quite modest in his estimate of his personal attractions.

‘Good morning, madame,’ he responded. ‘Another beautiful day.’

‘Yes, isn’t it fortunate? But Douglas and I are always lucky in our weather.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. We’re really very lucky altogether. You know, M. Poirot, when one sees so much trouble and unhappiness, and so many couples divorcing each other and all that sort of thing, well, one does feel very grateful for one’s own happiness.’

‘It is pleasant to hear you say so, madame.’

‘Yes. Douglas and I are so wonderfully happy together. We’ve been married five years, you know, and after all, five years is quite a long time nowadays—’

‘I have no doubt that in some cases it can seem an eternity, madame,’ said Poirot dryly.

‘—but I really believe that we’re happier now than when we were first married. You see, we’re so absolutely suited to each other.’

‘That, of course, is everything.’

‘That’s why I feel so sorry for people who aren’t happy.’

‘You mean—’

‘Oh! I was speaking generally, M. Poirot.’

‘I see. I see.’

Mrs Gold picked up a strand of silk, held it to the light, approved of it, and went on:

‘Mrs Chantry, for instance—’

‘Yes, Mrs Chantry?’

‘I don’t think she’s at all a nice woman.’

‘No. No, perhaps not.’

‘In fact, I’m quite sure she’s not a nice woman. But in a way one feels sorry for her. Because in spite of her money and her good looks and all that’—Mrs Gold’s fingers were trembling and she was quite unable to thread her needle—‘she’s not the sort of woman men really stick to. She’s the sort of woman, I think, that men would get tired of very easily. Don’t you think so?’

‘I myself should certainly get tired of her conversation before any great space of time had passed,’ said Poirot cautiously.

‘Yes, that’s what I mean. She has, of course, a kind of appeal…’ Mrs Gold hesitated, her lips trembled, she stabbed uncertainly at her work. A less acute observer than Hercule Poirot could not have failed to notice her distress. She went on inconsequently:

‘Men are just like children! They believe anything…’

She bent over her work. The tiny wisp of cambric came out again unobtrusively.

Perhaps Hercule Poirot thought it well to change the subject.

He said:

‘You do not bathe this morning? And monsieur your husband, is he down on the beach?’

Mrs Gold looked up, blinked, resumed her almsot defiantly bright manner and replied:

‘No, not this morning. We arranged to go round the walls of the old city. But somehow or other we—we missed each other. They started without me.’