Miss Van Schuyler again did not answer.
“I’ve got two legs, two arms, good health, and quite reasonable brains. What’s wrong with that?”
“There is such a thing as social position, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Social position is bunk!”
The door swung open and Cornelia came in. She stopped dead on seeing her redoubtable Cousin Marie in conversation with her would-be suitor.
The outrageous Mr. Ferguson turned his head, grinned broadly and called out: “Come along, Cornelia. I’m asking for your hand in marriage in the best conventional manner.”
“Cornelia,” said Miss Van Schuyler, and her voice was truly awful in quality, “have you encouraged this young man?”
“I—no, of course not—at least—not exactly—I mean—”
“What do you mean?”
“She hasn’t encouraged me,” said Mr. Ferguson helpfully. “I’ve done it all. She hasn’t actually pushed me in the face, because she’s got too kind a heart. Cornelia, your cousin says I’m not good enough for you. That, of course, is true, but not in the way she means it. My moral nature certainly doesn’t equal yours, but her point is that I’m hopelessly below you socially.”
“That I think, is equally obvious to Cornelia,” said Miss Van Schuyler.
“Is it?” Mr. Ferguson looked at her searchingly. “Is that why you won’t marry me?”
“No, it isn’t.” Cornelia flushed. “If—if I liked you, I’d marry you no matter who you were.”
“But you don’t like me?”
“I—I think you’re just outrageous. The way you say things…The things you say…I—I’ve never met anyone the least like you. I—”
Tears threatened to overcome her. She rushed from the room.
“On the whole,” said Mr. Ferguson, “that’s not too bad for a start.” He leaned back in his chair, gazed at the ceiling, whistled, crossed his disreputable knees and remarked: “I’ll be calling you Cousin yet.”
Miss Van Schuyler trembled with rage. “Leave this room at once, sir, or I’ll ring for the steward.”
“I’ve paid for my ticket,” said Mr. Ferguson. “They can’t possibly turn me out of the public lounge. But I’ll humour you.” He sang softly, “Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.” Rising, he sauntered nonchalantly to the door and passed out.
Choking with anger Miss Van Schuyler struggled to her feet. Poirot, discreetly emerging from retirement behind his magazine, sprang up and retrieved the ball of wool.
“Thank you, Monsieur Poirot. If you would send Miss Bowers to me—I feel quite upset—that insolent young man.”
“Rather eccentric, I’m afraid,” said Poirot. “Most of that family are. Spoilt, of course. Always inclined to tilt at windmills.” He added carelessly, “You recognized him, I suppose?”
“Recognized him?”
“Calls himself Ferguson and won’t use his title because of his advanced ideas.”
“His title?” Miss Van Schuyler’s tone was sharp.
“Yes, that’s young Lord Dawlish. Rolling in money, of course, but he became a communist when he was at Oxford.”
Miss Van Schuyler, her face a battleground of contradictory emotions, said: “How long have you known this, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“There was a picture in one of these papers—I noticed the resemblance. Then I found a signet ring with a coat of arms on it. Oh, there’s no doubt about it, I assure you.”
He quite enjoyed reading the conflicting expressions that succeeded each other on Miss Van Schuyler’s face. Finally, with a gracious inclination of the head, she said, “I am very much obliged to you, Monsieur Poirot.”