“Ah,” said Chevenix, “there you are. Your 'sometimes' gives you away.”
She changed the subject. “Do have some tea. It will be quite cold.”
He had been staring again at the photograph—Sanchia's gleaming limbs, the gypsy's intent face shadowed over the water. He now relinquished it with an effort. “Thanks,” he said. “I like it cold.” He sat beside her, and they talked casually, like old, fast friends, of mutual acquaintance. But for him the air was charged; she was on his conscience. Reminiscences paled and talk died down; he found himself staring at the wall.
He resumed the great affair. “Nevile's rather jumpy, don't you think?”
Her serenity was proof. “Is he? Why should he be?”
“Ah, my dear!” cried the poor young man. “Let's say it's the old Devereux. Salmo deverox, eh? Sounds fierce.”
Not a flicker. “Mrs. Devereux? What has she been doing to him?”
“Nothing,” he said; “and that's just it. She won't have anything to say to him.”
Then she went a little too far. A man charged with friendly impulse, charged also with knowledge, must be handled tenderly. You must not be foolhardy. But here was bravado, nothing less. For she arched her brows, and showed her eyes innocently wide. “Oh!” she said, “why? Why won't Mrs. Devereux speak to Nevile?”
“Oh, come, you know.” He looked at her keenly. He didn't wink, but he blinked. Then he crossed the room. “Look here, Sancie. Will you let me talk to you—really—as an old friend?”