“Pas encore. Qa m'amuse.""Really, Poirot!""Yes, my friend. I grow old and childish, do I not?”

“Poirot," I said. "I have been thinking.""An admirable exercise my friend. Continue it.”

“No, my friend, I am not drunk. I have just been to the dentist, and need not return for another six months! Is it not the most beautiful thought?--Poirot”

“Oh! Do not excite yourself. Shall I say that he interested me because he was trying to grow a mustache and as yet the result is poor." Poirot stroked his own magnificent mustache tenderly. "It is an art," he murmured, "the growing of the mustache! I have sympathy for all who attempt it.”

“What are you doing, Poirot?""I dissect rucksacks. It is very interesting.”

“I have no pity for myself either. So let it be Veronal. But I wish Hercule Poirot had never retired from work and come here to grow vegetable marrows.”

“What's wrong with my proposition?" Poirot rose. "If you will forgive me for being personal-I do not like your face, M. Ratchett.”