Hercule Poirot frowned. "Miss Lemon," he said. "Indeed, Mr. Poirot?" "This letter has three mistakes." His voice was full of disbelief, because Miss Lemon, that unattractive but highly capable woman, never made mistakes; she never fell ill, never got tired, never got upset, never made inaccuracies. From a practical point of view, in other words, she was not even a woman. She was a machine – the perfect secretary. She knew everything, could overcome any difficulty. She managed, so to speak, the life of Hercule Poirot like a well-oiled machine. Order and methodicalness had been the key words of Hercule Poirot for many years, his refrain. Thanks to George, his impeccable servant, and Miss Lemon, his flawless secretary, order and methodicalness ruled his life absolutely. Now that the crumpets* came out not only round but also square-shaped, he had no reason to complain.
However, this morning Miss Lemon had made three mistakes in dictating a very simple letter and, moreover, had not even pointed out these mistakes. The sky would fall on them! Hercule Poirot held the guilty text towards her. He was not annoyed – he was simply astonished. It was one of those things that should not have happened – but it had happened! Miss Lemon took the letter. She examined it. For the first time in his life, Poirot saw her blush; a strong, awkward, repulsive redness that stained her face all the way to the roots of her thick graying hair.