“Yes. We’re really very lucky altogether. You know, M. Poirot, when one sees so much trouble and unhappiness, and so many couples divorcing each other and all that sort of thing, well, one does feel very grateful for one’s own happiness.”
“It is pleasant to hear you say so, madame.”
“Yes. Douglas and I are so wonderfully happy together. We’ve been married five years, you know, and after all, five years is quite a long time nowadays—”
“I have no doubt that in some cases it can seem an eternity, madame,” said Poirot dryly.
“—but I really believe that we’re happier now than when we were first married. You see, we’re so absolutely suited to each other.”
“That, of course, is everything.”
“That’s why I feel so sorry for people who aren’t happy.”
“You mean—”
“Oh! I was speaking generally, M. Poirot.”
“I see. I see.”
Mrs. Gold picked up a strand of silk, held it to the light, approved of it, and went on:
“Mrs. Chantry, for instance—”
“Yes, Mrs. Chantry?”
“I don’t think she’s at all a nice woman.”
“No. No, perhaps not.”
“In fact, I’m quite sure she’s not a nice woman. But in a way one feels sorry for her. Because in spite of her money and her good looks and all that”—Mrs. Gold’s fingers were trembling and she was quite unable to thread her needle—“she’s not the sort of woman men really stick to. She’s the sort of woman, I think, that men would get tired of very easily. Don’t you
think so?”
“I myself should certainly get tired of her conversation before any great space of time had passed,” said Poirot cautiously.
“Yes, that’s what I mean. She has, of course, a kind of appeal . . .” Mrs. Gold hesitated, her lips trembled, she stabbed uncertainly at her work. A less acute observer than Hercule Poirot could not have failed to notice her distress. She went on inconsequently:
“Men are just like children! They believe anything. . . .”
She bent over her work. The tiny wisp of cambric came out again unobtrusively.
Perhaps Hercule Poirot thought it well to change the subject.
He said:
“You do not bathe this morning? And monsieur your husband, is he down on the beach?”
Mrs. Gold looked up, blinked, resumed her almost defiantly bright manner and replied:
“No, not this morning. We arranged to go round the walls of the old city. But somehow or other we—we missed each other. They started without me.”
The pronoun was revealing, but before Poirot could say anything, General Barnes came up from the beach below and dropped into a chair beside them.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gold. Good morning, Poirot. Both deserters this morning? A lot of absentees. You two, and your husband, Mrs. Gold—and Mrs. Chantry.”
“And Commander Chantry?” inquired Poirot casually.
“Oh, no, he’s down there. Miss Pamela’s got him in hand.” The General chuckled. “She’s finding him a little bit difficult! One of the strong, silent men you hear about in books.”