‘Dear me,’ I said, recovering from the shock. ‘I suppose next time I come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches—or are you doing so now?’ Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw. ‘No, no, indeed, mon ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustache! Quel horreur!’ He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character. ‘Well, they are very luxuriant still,’ I said. ‘N’est ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal
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