"Why not?" she repeated under her breath—"Why shouldn't you have mentioned it? Did he tell you not to?"
Before him, within the next few moments, Devenish could see the rising of a storm, and so he set his sails, kept a clear head, talked gently, almost beneath his breath, as if the matter were not of the import she found it. The jealousy of women was not unknown to him. He had met it often before; knew the tempest it called forth; had sailed through it himself with canvas close-reefed and tiller well-gripped in his hands. In Sally's eyes, as she branded her question on his mind, he could discern that unnatural glint which presages the driven action of a woman who is goaded to desperation. For Traill's sake, for her sake also, for his own sake too, it was essential to keep a steady head—move warily and take no risks.
"Did he tell you not to?" she asked again, before the plan of action was settled in his mind.
"Not at all—of course not. Why should he? Besides, if he had, should I have spoken to you about it? I thought you knew."
"No—I didn't know. How old is she—this girl?"
"About twenty-one, I suppose. Twenty-two—twenty-one."
"Is she pretty?"
Devenish screwed up his lips—lifted his shoulders.
"Is she?" she reiterated.
"Many people might not think so."