Katherine turned defiantly round to face him.

“What is it?” she asked. “You are trying to tell me something⁠—to convey it to me rather. But I am not clever at taking hints. I would much rather that you said anything you have to say straight out.”

Poirot looked at her sadly. “ Ah, mais c’est anglais ça ,” he murmured, “everything in black and white, everything clear cut and well defined. But life, it is not like that, Mademoiselle. There are the things that are not yet, but which cast their shadow before.”

He dabbed his brow with a very large silk pocket-handkerchief and murmured:

“Ah, but it is that I become poetical. Let us, as you say, speak only of facts. And, speaking of facts, tell me what you think of Major Knighton.”

“I like him very much indeed,” said Katherine warmly; “he is quite delightful.”