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“Egg—my dear. One grows up.”
He drawled the words, raising his eyebrows.
A handsome young fellow, twenty-five at a guess. Something, perhaps, a little sleek about his good looks. Something else—something—was it foreign? Something unEnglish about him.
Somebody else was watching Oliver Manders. A little man with an egg-shaped head and very foreign-looking moustaches. Mr. Satterthwaite had recalled himself to M. Hercule Poirot’s memory. The little man had been very affable. Mr. Satterthwaite suspected him of deliberately exaggerating his foreign mannerisms. His small twinkly eyes seemed to say, “You expect me to be the buffoon? To play the comedy for you? Bien—it shall be as you wish!”
But there was no twinkle now in Hercule Poirot’s eyes. He looked grave and a little sad.
The Rev. Stephen Babbington, rector of Loomouth, came and joined Lady Mary and Mr. Satterthwaite. He was a man of sixty odd, with kind faded eyes and a disarming diffident manner. He said to Mr. Satterthwaite:
“We are very lucky to have Sir Charles living among us. He has been most kind—most generous. A very pleasant neighbour to have. Lady Mary agrees, I am sure.”
Lady Mary smiled.
“I like him very much. His success hasn’t spoilt him. In many ways he is,” her smile deepened, “a child still.”
The parlourmaid approached with the tray of cocktails as Mr. Satterthwaite reflected how unendingly maternal women were. Being of the Victorian generation, he approved that trait.
“You can have a cocktail, Mums,” said Egg, flashing up to them, glass in hand. “Just one.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Lady Mary meekly.
“I think,” said Mr. Babbington, “that my wife would allow me to have one.”
And he laughed a little gentle clerical laugh.
Mr. Satterthwaite glanced over at Mrs. Babbington, who was talking earnestly to Sir Charles on the subject of manure.
“She’s got fine eyes,” he thought.
Mrs. Babbington was a big untidy woman. She looked full of energy and likely to be free from petty-mindedness. As Charles Cartwright had said—a nice woman.
“Tell me,” Lady Mary leaned forward. “Who is the young woman you were talking to when we came in—the one in green?”
“That’s the playwright—Anthony Astor.”
“What? That—that anaemic-looking young woman? Oh!” She caught herself up. “How dreadful of me. But it was a surprise. She doesn’t look—I mean she looks exactly like an inefficient nursery governess.”
It was such an apt description of Miss Wills’ appearance that Mr. Satterthwaite laughed. Mr. Babbington was peering across the room with amiable shortsighted eyes. He took a sip of his cocktail and choked a little. He was unused to cocktails, thought Mr. Satterthwaite amusedly—probably they represented modernity to his mind—but he didn’t like them. Mr. Babbington took another determined mouthful with a slightly wry face and said:
“Is it the lady over there? Oh dear—”
His hand went to his throat.
Egg Lytton Gore’s voice rang out:
“Oliver—you slippery Shylock—”
“Of course,” thought Mr. Satterthwaite, “that’s it—not foreign—Jew!”
What a handsome pair they made. Both so young and good-looking…and quarrelling, too—always a healthy sign….
H
e was distracted by a sound at his side. Mr. Babbington had risen to his feet and was swaying to and fro. His face was convulsed.
It was Egg’s clear voice that drew the attention of the room, though Lady Mary had risen and stretched out an anxious hand.
