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He
beamed
upon
me
as
I
entered
.
“
You
have
slept
well
,
yes
?
You
have
recovered
from
the
crossing
so
terrible
?
It
is
a
marvel
,
almost
you
are
exact
this
morning
.
Pardon
,
but
your
tie
is
not
symmetrical
.
Permit
that
I
rearrange
him
.
”
Elsewhere
,
I
have
described
Hercule
Poirot
.
An
extraordinary
little
man
!
Height
,
five
feet
four
inches
,
egg
-
shaped
head
carried
a
little
to
one
side
,
eyes
that
shone
green
when
he
was
excited
,
stiff
military
moustache
,
air
of
dignity
immense
!
He
was
neat
and
dandified
in
appearance
.
For
neatness
of
any
kind
,
he
had
an
absolute
passion
.
To
see
an
ornament
set
crooked
,
or
a
speck
of
dust
,
or
a
slight
disarray
in
one
’
s
attire
,
was
torture
to
the
little
man
until
he
could
ease
his
feelings
by
remedying
the
matter
.
“
Order
”
and
“
Method
”
were
his
gods
.
He
had
a
certain
disdain
for
tangible
evidence
,
such
as
footprints
and
cigarette
ash
,
and
would
maintain
that
,
taken
by
themselves
,
they
would
never
enable
a
detective
to
solve
a
problem
.
Then
he
would
tap
his
egg
-
shaped
head
with
absurd
complacency
,
and
remark
with
great
satisfaction
:
“
The
true
work
,
it
is
done
from
within
.
The
little
grey
cells
—
remember
always
the
little
grey
cells
,
mon
ami
!
”
I
slipped
into
my
seat
,
and
remarked
idly
,
in
answer
to
Poirot
’
s
greeting
,
that
an
hour
’
s
sea
passage
from
Calais
to
Dover
could
hardly
be
dignified
by
the
epithet
“
terrible
.
”
Poirot
waved
his
egg
-
spoon
in
vigorous
refutation
of
my
remark
.
“
Du
tout
!
If
for
an
hour
one
experiences
sensations
and
emotions
of
the
most
terrible
,
one
has
lived
many
hours
!
Does
not
one
of
your
English
poets
say
that
time
is
counted
,
not
by
hours
,
but
by
heart
-
beats
?
”
“
I
fancy
Browning
was
referring
to
something
more
romantic
than
sea
sickness
,
though
.
”
“
Because
he
was
an
Englishman
,
an
Islander
to
whom
la
Manche
was
nothing
.
Oh
,
you
English
!
With
nous
autres
it
is
different
.
Figure
to
yourself
that
a
lady
of
my
acquaintance
at
the
beginning
of
the
war
fled
to
Ostend
.
There
she
had
a
terrible
crisis
of
the
nerves
.
Impossible
to
escape
further
except
by
crossing
the
sea
!
And
she
had
a
horror
—
mais
une
horreur
!
—
of
the
sea
!
What
was
she
to
do
?
Daily
les
Boches
were
drawing
nearer
.
Imagine
to
yourself
the
terrible
situation
!
”
“
What
did
she
do
?
”
I
inquired
curiously
.
