“You must excuse me. I like attacking established institutions.”
“And I am an established institution?”
“Precisely. What do you think of that girl?”
“Of Miss Robson?”
“Yes.”
“I think that she has a great deal of character.”
“You’re right. She’s got spirit. She looks meek, but she isn’t. She’s got guts. She’s—oh, damn it, I want that girl. It mightn’t be a bad move if I tackled the old lady. If I could once get her thoroughly against me, it might cut some ice with Cornelia.”
He wheeled and went into the observation saloon. Miss Van Schuyler was seated in her usual corner. She looked even more arrogant than usual. She was knitting. Ferguson strode up to her. Hercule Poirot,
entering unobtrusively, took a seat a discreet distance away and appeared to be absorbed in a magazine.
“Good afternoon, Miss Van Schuyler.”
Miss Van Schuyler raised her eyes for a bare second, dropped them again and murmured frigidly, “Er—good afternoon.”
“Look here, Miss Van Schuyler, I want to talk to you about something pretty important. It’s just this. I want to marry your cousin.”
Miss Van Schuyler’s ball of wool dropped on to the ground and ran wildly across the saloon.
She said in a venomous tone: “You must be out of your senses, young man.”
“Not at all. I’m determined to marry her. I’ve asked her to marry me!”
Miss Van Schuyler surveyed him coldly, with the kind of speculative interest she might have accorded to an odd sort of beetle.
“Indeed? And I presume she sent you about your business.”
“She refused me.”
“Naturally.”
“Not ‘naturally’ at all. I’m going to go on asking her till she agrees.”
“I can assure you, sir, that I shall take steps to see that my young cousin is not subjected to any such persecution,” said Miss Van Schuyler in a biting tone.
“What have you got against me?”
Miss Van Schuyler merely raised her eyebrows and gave a vehement tug to her wool, preparatory to regaining it and closing the interview.
“Come now,” persisted Mr. Ferguson, “what have you got against me?”
“I should think that was quite obvious, Mr—er—I don’t know your name.”
“Ferguson.”
“Mr. Ferguson.” Miss Van Schuyler uttered the name with definite distaste. “Any such idea is quite out of the question.”
“You mean,” said Ferguson, “that I’m not good enough for her?”
“I should think that would have been obvious to you.”
“In what way am I not good enough?”