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was permanently disfigured.”
    Mr. Jonathan sighed. He said:
    â€œYou can imagine the effect a simple question on that point had at the trial.”
    He shook his head:
    â€œIt gave the impression that Caroline Crale was a woman of ungovernable temper. That was not true. No, that was not true.”
    He paused and then resumed:
    â€œCaroline Spalding came often to stay at Alderbury. She rode well, and was keen. Richard Crale was fond of her. She waited on Mrs. Crale and was deft and gentle—Mrs. Crale also liked her. The girl was not happy at home. She was happy at Alderbury. Diana Crale, Amyas’s sister, and she were by way of being friends. Philip and Meredith Blake, boys from the adjoining estate, were frequently at Alderbury. Philip was always a nasty, money-grubbing little brute. I must confess I have always had a distaste for him. But I am told that he tells a very good story and that he has the reputation of being a staunch friend. Meredith was whatmy contemporaries used to call Namby Pamby. Liked botany and butterflies and observing birds and beasts. Nature study they call it nowadays. Ah, dear—all the young people were a disappointment to their parents. None of them ran true to type—huntin’, shootin’, fishin’. Meredith preferred watching birds and animals to shooting or hunting them, Philip definitely preferred town to country and went into the business of moneymaking. Diana married a fellow who wasn’t a gentleman—one of the temporary officers in the war. And Amyas, strong, handsome, virile Amyas, blossomed into being a painter, of all things in the world. It’s my opinion that Richard Crale died of the shock.
    â€œAnd in due course Amyas married Caroline Spalding. They’d always fought and sparred, but it was a love match all right. They were both crazy about each other. And they continued to care. But Amyas was like all the Crales, a ruthless egoist. He loved Caroline but he never once considered her in any way. He did as he pleased. It’s my opinion that he was as fond of her as he could be of anybody—but she came a long way behind his art. That came first. And I should say at no time did his art give place to a woman. He had affairs with women—they stimulated him—but he left them high and dry when he’d finished with them. He wasn’t a sentimental man, nor a romantic one. And he wasn’t entirely a sensualist either. The only woman he cared a button for was his own wife. And because she knew that she put up with a lot. He was a very fine painter, you know. She realized that, and respected it. He chased off in his amorous pursuits and came back again—usually with a picture to show for it.
    â€œIt might have gone on like that if it hadn’t come to Elsa Greer. Elsa Greer—”
    Mr. Jonathan shook his head.
    Poirot said: “What of Elsa Greer?”
    Mr. Jonathan said unexpectedly:
    â€œPoor child. Poor child.”
    Poirot said: “So you feel like that about her?”
    Jonathan said:
    â€œMaybe it is because I am an old man, but I find, Mr. Poirot, that there is something about the defencelessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthless—so sure. So generous and so demanding.”
    Getting up, he crossed to the bookcase. Taking out a volume he opened it, turned the pages, and then read out:
    â€œâ€˜If that thy bent of love be honourable,
    The purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow
    By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,
    Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite,
    And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay,
    And follow thee my lord throughout the world.’”
    â€œThere speaks love allied to youth, in Juliet’s words. No reticence, no holding back, no so-called maiden modesty. It is the courage, the insistence, the ruthless force of youth. Shakespeare knew youth. Juliet singles out Romeo. Desdemona claims Othello. They have