simply because one has no money—or because the eart aches. L'amour, it causes many fatalities, does it not?
Zia laughed.
"You should not laugh at love, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, shaking an energetic forefinger at her. "You who are young and beautiful."
"Hardly that," said Zia; "you forget that I am thirty-three M. Poirot. I am frank with you, because it is no good being otherwise. As you told my father, it is exactly seventeen years since you aided us in Paris that time."
"When I look at you, it seems much less," said Poirot gallantly. "You were then very much as you are now. Mademoiselle, a little thinner, a little paler, a little more serious. Sixteen years old and fresh from your pension. Not quite the petite pensionnaire, not quite a woman. You were very delicious, very charming, Mademoiselle Zia, others thought so too, without doubt."
"At sixteen," said Zia, "one is simple and a little fool."
"That may be," said Poirot, "yes, that well may be. At sixteen one is credulous, is one not? One believes what one is told."
If he saw the quick sideways glance that the girl shot at him, he pretended not to have done so. He continued dreamily, "It was a curious affair that, altogether Your father, Mademoiselle, has never understood the true inwardness of it."
"No?"
"When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus: 'Without scandal, I have got back
