Hercule Poirot smiled, remembering that past incident wherein a dead body, a waiter, M. Blondin, and a very lovely lady had played a part.
“You are too amiable, Monsieur Blondin,” he said.
“And you are alone, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Yes, I am alone.”
“Oh, well, Jules here will compose for you a little meal that will be a poem—positively a poem! Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: They distract the mind from food! You will enjoy your dinner, Monsieur Poirot; I promise you that. Now as to wine—”
A technical conversation ensued, Jules, the maître d’hotel, assisting.
Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially.
“You have grave affairs on hand?”
Poirot shook his head.
“I am, alas, a man of leisure,” he said softly. “I have made the economies in my time and I have now the means to enjoy the life of idleness.”
“I envy you.”
“No, no, you would be unwise to do so. I can assure you, it is not so gay as it sounds.” He sighed. “How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the strain of having to think.”
M. Blondin threw up his hands.
“But there is so much! There is travel!”
“Yes, there is travel. Already I have not done so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think. The climate, they say, is superb! One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of the constantly falling rain.”
“Ah! Egypt,” breathed M. Blondin.
“One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel.”
“Ah, the sea, it does not agree with you?”
Hercule Poirot shook his head and shuddered slightly.
“I, too,” said M. Blondin with sympathy. “Curious the effect it has upon the stomach.”
“But only upon certain stomachs! There are people on whom the motion makes no impression whatever. They actually enjoy it!”
“An unfairness of the good God,” said M. Blondin.
He shook his head sadly, and, brooding on the impious thought, withdrew.
Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters ministered to the table. Toast Melba, butter, an ice pail, all the adjuncts to a meal of quality.
The Negro orchestra broke into an ecstasy of strange discordant noises. London danced.
Hercule Poirot looked on, registered impressions in his neat orderly mind.
How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying themselves…whereas a patient endurance seemed to be the sentiment exhibited on their partners’ faces. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant…Undoubtedly the fat had certain compensations in life…a zest—a gusto—denied to those of more fashionable contours.
A good sprinkling of young people—some vacant-looking—some bored—some definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happiness—youth, the time of greatest vulnerability!
His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair—tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in perfect rhythm of happiness. Happiness in the place, the hour, and in each other.
The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore the couple returned to their table close by Poirot. The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face, lifted laughing to her companion.