‘And a fine actress too.’

‘Possibly.’

‘You don’t seem convinced.’

‘I think it would depend on the setting, my friend. If she is the centre of the play, if all revolves round her-yes, then she could play her part. I doubt if she could play a small part adequately or even what is called a character part. The play must be writtenabout her andfor her. She appears to me of the type of women who are interested only in themselves.’ He paused and then added rather unexpectedly: ‘Such people go through life in great danger.’

‘Danger?’ I said, surprised.

‘I have used a word that surprises you, I see,mon ami. Yes, danger. Because, you see, a woman like that sees only one thing-herself. Such women see nothing of the dangers and hazards that surround them-the million conflicting interests and relationships of life. No, they see only their own forward path. And so-sooner or later-disaster.’

I was interested. I confessed to myself that such a point of view would not have struck me.

‘And the other?’ I asked. 

‘Miss Adams?’

His gaze swept to her table.

‘Well?’ he said, smiling. ‘What do you want me to say about her?’

‘Only how she strikes you.’

‘Mon cher, am I tonight the fortune-teller who reads the palm and tells the character?’

‘You could do it better than most,’ I rejoined.

‘It is a very pretty faith that you have in me, Hastings. It touches me. Do you not know, my friend, that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desires and attitudes?Mais oui, c’est vrai. One makes one’s little judgments-but nine times out of ten one is wrong.’

‘Not Hercule Poirot,’ I said, smiling.

‘Even Hercule Poirot! Oh! I know very well that you have always a little idea that I am conceited, but, indeed, I assure you, I am really a very humble person.’