“But she isn’t interested. Nothing interests her.”
Big grey eyes—like dead lakes.
Poirot became, as was his way, a little obviously foreign.
He exclaimed:
“I am confused, madame, veritably I am confused.”
“Oh no, why?”
“Because I realize that this—this reconstruction of a past drama must be excessively painful to you!”
She looked amused. Yes, it was amusement. Quite genuine amusement.
She said:
“I suppose my husband put that idea into your head? He saw you when you arrived. Of course he doesn’t understand in the least. He never has. I’m not at all the sensitive sort of person he imagines I am.”
The amusement was still in her voice. She said:
“My father, you know, was a mill hand. He worked his way up and made a fortune. You don’t do that if you’re thin-skinned. I’m the same.”
Poirot thought to himself: Yes, that is true. A thin-skinned person would not have come to stay in Caroline Crale’s house.
Lady Dittisham said:
“What is it you want me to do?”
“You are sure, madame, that to go over the past would not be painful to you?”
She considered a minute, and it struck Poirot suddenly that Lady Dittisham was a very frank woman. She might lie from necessity but never from choice.
Elsa Dittisham said slowly:
“No, not painful. In a way, I wish it were.”
“Why?”
She said impatiently:
“It’s so stupid never to feel anything….”
And Hercule Poirot thought:
“Yes, Elsa Greer is dead….”
Aloud he said:
“At all events, Lady Dittisham, it makes my task very much easier.”
She said cheerfully:
“What do you want to know?”
“Have you a good memory, madame?”
“Reasonably good, I think.”