Compare that to”—his voice sank to an appreciative purr—“an easy chair in front of a wood fire in a long, low room lined with books—must be a long room—not a square one. Books all round one. A glass of port—and a book open in your hand. Time rolls back as you read:” he quoted sonorously: He translated: “ ‘By skill again, the pilot on the wine-dark sea straightens The swift ship buffeted by the winds.’ Of course you can never really get the spirit of the original.” For the moment, in his enthusiasm, he had forgotten Poirot. And Poirot, watching him, felt suddenly a doubt—an uncomfortable
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