“Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-as-dust old office,” he added, careless of the feelings of Mr. McNeil.

This outrageous flattery was not without effect. Miss Monro blushed and simpered.

“Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!” she exclaimed. “I know what you Frenchmen are like.”

“Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen before beauty. Not that I am a Frenchman⁠—I am a Belgian, you see.”

“I’ve been to Ostend myself,” said Miss Monro.

The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was marching splendidly.