Schuyler would assuredly have winced. As they walked together up an avenue of sphinxes, she responded readily to his conventional opening.
“Your companions are not coming ashore to view the temple?”
“Well, you see, Cousin Marie - that's Miss Van Schuyler - never gets up very early. She has to be very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers, that's her hospital nurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isn't one of the best temples - but she was frightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.”
“That was very gracious of her,” said Poirot drily.
The ingenuous Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.
“Oh, she's very kind. It's simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel I'm a lucky girl. I just could hardly believe it when she suggested to Mother that I should come too.”
“And you have enjoyed it - yes?”
“Oh, it's been wonderful! I've seen Italy - Venice and Padua and Pisa - and then Cairo - only Cousin Marie wasn't very well in Cairo, so I couldn't get around much, and now this wonderful trip up to Wвdi Halfa and back.”
Poirot said, smiling, “You have the happy nature, Mademoiselle.”
He looked thoughtfully from her to the silent, frowning Rosalie, who was walking ahead by herself.
“She's very nice-looking, isn't she?” said Cornelia, following his glance. “Only kind of scornful looking. She's very English, of course. She's not as lovely as Mrs Doyle. I think Mrs Doyle's the loveliest, the most elegant woman I've ever seen! And her husband just worships the ground she walks on, doesn't he? I think that grey-haired lady is kind of distinguished looking, don't you? She's cousin to a Duke, I believe. She was talking about him right near us last night. But she isn't actually titled herself, is she?”
She prattled on until the dragoman in charge called a halt and began to intone: “This temple was dedicated to Egyptian God Amun and the Sun God Ré-Harakhte - whose symbol was a hawk's head...”
It droned on. Dr Bessner, Baedeker in hand, mumbled to himself in German. He preferred the written word.
Tim Allerton had not joined the party. His mother was breaking the ice with the reserved Mr Fanthorp. Andrew Pennington, his arm through Linnet Doyle's, was listening attentively, seemingly most interested in the measurements as recited by the guide.
“Sixty-five feet high, is that so? Looks a little less to me. Great fellow, this Rameses. An Egyptian live wire.”
“A big business man, Uncle Andrew.”
Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.
“You look fine this morning, Linnet. I've been a mite worried about you lately. You've looked kind of peaky.”
Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided up the river. The scenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation.
It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had brooded over the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness. Rosalie looked less sulky. Linnet seemed almost light-hearted. Pennington said to her, “It's tactless to talk business to a bride on her honeymoon, but there are just one or two things -”
“Why, of course, Uncle Andrew.” Linnet at once became businesslike. “My marriage has made a difference, of course.”
“That's just it. Some time or other I want your signature to several documents.”
“Why not now?”
Andrew Pennington glanced round. Their corner of the observation saloon was quite untenanted. Most of the people were outside on the deck space between the observation saloon and the cabins. The only occupants of the saloon were Mr Ferguson - who was drinking beer at a small table in the middle, his legs, encased in their dirty flannel trousers, stuck out in front of him, whilst he whistled to himself in the intervals of drinking - M. Hercule Poirot, who was sitting close up to the front glass, intent on the panorama unfolding
“Your companions are not coming ashore to view the temple?”
“Well, you see, Cousin Marie - that's Miss Van Schuyler - never gets up very early. She has to be very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers, that's her hospital nurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isn't one of the best temples - but she was frightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.”
“That was very gracious of her,” said Poirot drily.
The ingenuous Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.
“Oh, she's very kind. It's simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel I'm a lucky girl. I just could hardly believe it when she suggested to Mother that I should come too.”
“And you have enjoyed it - yes?”
“Oh, it's been wonderful! I've seen Italy - Venice and Padua and Pisa - and then Cairo - only Cousin Marie wasn't very well in Cairo, so I couldn't get around much, and now this wonderful trip up to Wвdi Halfa and back.”
Poirot said, smiling, “You have the happy nature, Mademoiselle.”
He looked thoughtfully from her to the silent, frowning Rosalie, who was walking ahead by herself.
“She's very nice-looking, isn't she?” said Cornelia, following his glance. “Only kind of scornful looking. She's very English, of course. She's not as lovely as Mrs Doyle. I think Mrs Doyle's the loveliest, the most elegant woman I've ever seen! And her husband just worships the ground she walks on, doesn't he? I think that grey-haired lady is kind of distinguished looking, don't you? She's cousin to a Duke, I believe. She was talking about him right near us last night. But she isn't actually titled herself, is she?”
She prattled on until the dragoman in charge called a halt and began to intone: “This temple was dedicated to Egyptian God Amun and the Sun God Ré-Harakhte - whose symbol was a hawk's head...”
It droned on. Dr Bessner, Baedeker in hand, mumbled to himself in German. He preferred the written word.
Tim Allerton had not joined the party. His mother was breaking the ice with the reserved Mr Fanthorp. Andrew Pennington, his arm through Linnet Doyle's, was listening attentively, seemingly most interested in the measurements as recited by the guide.
“Sixty-five feet high, is that so? Looks a little less to me. Great fellow, this Rameses. An Egyptian live wire.”
“A big business man, Uncle Andrew.”
Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.
“You look fine this morning, Linnet. I've been a mite worried about you lately. You've looked kind of peaky.”
Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided up the river. The scenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation.
It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had brooded over the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness. Rosalie looked less sulky. Linnet seemed almost light-hearted. Pennington said to her, “It's tactless to talk business to a bride on her honeymoon, but there are just one or two things -”
“Why, of course, Uncle Andrew.” Linnet at once became businesslike. “My marriage has made a difference, of course.”
“That's just it. Some time or other I want your signature to several documents.”
“Why not now?”
Andrew Pennington glanced round. Their corner of the observation saloon was quite untenanted. Most of the people were outside on the deck space between the observation saloon and the cabins. The only occupants of the saloon were Mr Ferguson - who was drinking beer at a small table in the middle, his legs, encased in their dirty flannel trousers, stuck out in front of him, whilst he whistled to himself in the intervals of drinking - M. Hercule Poirot, who was sitting close up to the front glass, intent on the panorama unfolding
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