“If you mean that I was fond of her⁠—yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them⁠—and, that way she missed love. Don’t think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first. ‘So many pounds a year I’m worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides⁠—not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.’ She didn’t understand⁠—was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn’t that⁠—but I couldn’t explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing.”

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

“I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm⁠—that we lack fire and energy⁠—but trust me, it is not so.”