“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 snort. “If we’re talking of adventuresses⁠—”

She left the sentence unfinished.