"Yes, it is the
greatest thing in the world."
Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in.
"I--I only----"
"Come in," I said, springing up.
She came in, but did not sit down.
"I--only wanted to tell you something----"
"Yes?"
Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then,
suddenly exclaiming: "You dears!" kissed first me and then
Poirot, and rushed out of the room again.
"What on earth does this mean?" I asked, surprised.
It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of
the salute rather impaired the pleasure.
"It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not
dislike her as much as she thought," replied Poirot
philosophically.
"But----"
"Here he is."
Lawrence at that moment passed the door.
"Eh! Monsieur Lawrence," called Poirot. "We must congratulate
you, is it not so?"
Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a
sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming.
I sighed.
"What is it, mon ami?"
"Nothing," I said sadly.
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