“Exactly,” said Caroline. “Take James here—weak as water, if I weren’t about to look after him.”
“My dear Caroline,” I said irritably, “can’t you talk without dragging in personalities?”
“You are weak, James,” said Caroline, quite unmoved. “I’m eight years older than you are—oh! I don’t mind M. Poirot knowing that—”
“I should never have guessed it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, with a gallant little bow.
“Eight years older. But I’ve always considered it my duty to look after you. With a bad bringing up, Heaven knows what mischief you might have got into by now.”
“I might have married a beautiful adventuress,” I murmured, gazing at the ceiling, and blowing smoke rings.
“Adventuress!” said Caroline, with a