English, my lovely English

If you survived Mrs. Parker's scorn,
You were taken to look at Mr. Skidder's large hall-room on the third floor.
Mr. Skidder's room was not vacant. He wrote plays and smoked cigarettes in it
All day long. But every room-hunter was made to visit his room to admire
the Lambrequins.
After each visit, Mr. Skidder, from the fright caused by possible eviction,
Would pay something on his rent.
                O.H. The SkyLight Room

Her. Poirot shook his head.

Andy had too much imagination to be honest.
'Well,' says I, you know my idiosyncrasies. I prefer a square, non-illegal style of business such as we carrying on now. When I take money I want to leave some tangible object in the other fellow's hands for him to gaze at and to distract his attention from my spoor, even if it's only a Komical Kuss Trick Finger Ring for Squiring Perfume in a Friends Eye.
But if you've got a fresh idea, Andy,' says I, let's have a look at it. I'm not so wedded to petty graft that I would refuse something better in the way of subsidy.

                O.H. Conscience of Art

Her. Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

Then - 0h, then - if you still stood on one foot
with your hot hand clutching the three moist dollars in your pocket,
and hoarsely proclaimed your hideous and culpable poverty,
never more would Mrs. Parker be cicerone of yours.
She would honk loudly the word 'Clara', she would show you her back, and march downstairs.
                O.H. The SkyLight Room

Her Poirot shook his head

It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists , with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands
were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies  of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history.
With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought  of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies.
                R.B. Fahrenheit 451

Her. Poirot shook his head.

He said: 'Anyway, that's under age'. She can't know what she's doing.
Poor old Miredith. Always the chivalrous pukka sahib.
I said: "Don't worry, old boy. She knows what she's doing,
And She Likes It".
          A.C. Five Little Pigs


Her Poirot shook his head.

Here's a Valentine Day tale. Prepare yourself.
  An English journalist came to New York. She was attractive and witty,
and right away she hooked up with one of New York's typically bachelors,
Tim was forty two, an investment banker who made about 5 million dollars a year.
For two weeks, they kissed, held hands - and then on a warm fall day
he drove her to the house he was building on the Hamptous. They looked at the plans with the architect. "I wanted  to tell the architect to fill in the railings on the second floor, so the children wouldn't fall through," said the journalist. "I expected Tim was going to ask me to marry him."
On Sunday night, Tim dropped her off at her at her apartment and reminded her that they had dinner plans for Tuesday night. On Tuesday, he called and said he'd have to take a rain check. When she hadn't heard from him after two weeks,
she called and told him , "That's an awfully long rain check."
He said he would call her later in the week.
He never did call, of course. But what interested me was that she couldn't understand what had happened. In England, she explained, meeting the architect
would have meant something. Then I realized, Of course: She's from London. No one told her about the End of Love in Manhatten. Then I Thought: She'll learn.
               
                C.B. SEX and the CITY



Her. Poirot shook his head.


Report for Gideon
As George Gideoon of the Criminal Investigation Department drove from his home  to Scotland Yard that Monday morning, a report was being prepared for him. He knew that it would be ready e time he reached his office, and could imagine the antics of Lemaitre and the others helping to prepare it. He remembered performing similar antics, long before  he had become Commander Gideon. This newly-created titled irked him a little;  in many ways  he preferred the old 'Chief Superintendent'. Still, Commander had advantages, and really meant what it said. Gideon, above everything else a human being , enjoyed the warm glow which springs from reaching the top of the tree.
                J.J.M.  Gideon Week

Her Poirot shrugged his shouldes