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. “Fortunately her husband was _homme pratique___. He was also very calm, the crises of the nerves, they affected him not. _Il l’a emportée simplement!___ Naturally when she reached England she was prostrate, but she still breathed.” Poirot shook his head seriously. I composed my face as best I could. Suddenly he stiffened and pointed a dramatic finger at the toast rack. “Ah, par exemple, c’est trop fort!” he cried. “What is it?” “This piece of toast. You remark him not?” He whipped the offender out of the rack, and held it up for me to examine. “Is it square? No. Is it a triangle? Again no. Is it even round? No. Is it of any shape remotely pleasing to the eye? What symmetry have we here? None.” “It’s cut from a cottage loaf,” I explained soothingly. Poirot threw me a withering glance.