with her myself, but I hear she is a terror to deal with. Tempers and tantrums all the time."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully; "yes, so I should imagine."
"Temperament!" said Mr. Aarons, "temperament! That is what they call it themselves. My missus was a dancer before she married me, but I am thankful to say she never had any temperament. You don't want temperament in the home. Monsieur Poirot."
"I agree with you, my friend; it is out of place there."
"A woman should be calm and sympathetic, and a good cook," said Mr. Aarons.
"Mirelle has not been long before the public, has she?" asked Poirot.
"About two and a half years, that is all," said Mr. Aarons. "Some French Duke started her. I hear now that she has taken up with the ex-Prime Minister of Greece. These are the chaps who manage to put money away quietly."
"That is news to me," said Poirot.
"Oh, she's not one to let the grass grow under her feet. They say that young Kettering murdered his wife on her account. I don't know, I am sure. Anyway, he is in prison, and she had to look round for herself, and pretty smart she has been about it. They say she is wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg—not that I have ever seen a pigeon's egg myself, but that is what they always call it in works of fiction."
"A ruby the size of a pigeon's egg!" said Poirot. His eyes were green and catlike. "How interesting!"
