Wednesday, April 28, 2010
"Five o'clock in the morning is an awkward time to board a train. There were still two hours before dawn. Conscious of an inadequate night's sleep, and of a delicate mission successfully accomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.
When he awoke it was half-past nine and he sallied forth to the restaurant car in search of hot coffee.
There was only one occupant at the moment, obviously the young English lady referred to by the conductor. She was tall, slim and dark - perhaps twenty-eight years of age. There was a kind of cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she called to the attendant to bring her more coffee which bespoke a knowledge of the world and of travelling. She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material eminently suitable for the heated atmosphere of the train.
M. Hercule Poirot, having nothing better to do, amused himself by studying her without appearing to do so.
She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had poise and efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features and the delicate pallor of her skin. He likened the burnished black head with its neat waves of hair, and her eyes - cool and impersonal and grey. But she was, he decided, just a little too efficient to be what he called 'jolie femme.'"
I'm ready to plan a trip, but haven't the time nor the funds.