She went on:
“Do you think I don’t know? That I can’t see? All the time people are saying: ‘Poor Mrs. Redfern—that poor little woman.’ And anyway I’m not little, I’m tall. They say little because they are sorry for me. And I can’t bear it!”
Cautiously, Hercule Poirot spread his handkerchief on the seat and sat down. He said thoughtfully:
“There is something in that.”
“That woman—” said Christine and stopped.
Poirot said gravely:
“Will you allow me to tell you something, Madame? Something that is as true as the stars above us? The Arlena Stuarts—or Arlena Marshalls—of this world—do not count.”
Christine Redfern said:
“Nonsense.”
“I assure you, it is true. Their Empire is of the moment and for the moment. To count—really and truly to count—a woman must have goodness or brains.”
Christine said scornfully:
“Do you think men care for goodness or brains?”
Poirot said gravely:
“Fundamentally, yes.”
Christine laughed shortly.
“I don’t agree with you.”
Poirot said:
“Your husband loves you, Madame. I know it.”
“You can’t know it.”
“Yes, yes. I know it. I have seen him looking at you.”
Suddenly she broke down. She wept stormily and bitterly against Poirot’s accommodating shoulder.
She said:
“I can’t bear it … I can’t bear it….”
Poirot patted her arm. He said soothingly:
“Patience—only patience.”
She sat up and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. She said in a stifled voice:
“It’s all right. I’m better now. Leave me. I’d—I’d rather be alone.”
He obeyed and left her sitting there while he himself followed the winding path down to the hotel.
He was nearly there when he heard the murmur of voices.
He turned a little aside from the path. There was a gap in the bushes.