So, in that moment, it became with Sally. From the instant that she knew there was another woman in Traill's life--and it needed even less than instinct to show her that this girl was trying to steal him from her--the whole flame of jealousy licked her with a burning tongue. Quiet, sensitive, tender-hearted little Sally Bishop blazed into a furnace of emotion. She did not even know that she was melodramatic; she did not stop to think what effect her expression or her action would have on this man beside her. When he questioned the advisability of having told her that which came so near to the whole system of her being, she let reserve go, and feelings--a pack of sensations unleashed--raced riot across her mind, twisting her childish face into a haggard distortion of jealousy. "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." "But you do?" "Well--I suppose--well, she's not what you'd call plain." "Ah, you won't tell me. She is pretty--very pretty. Is she fair?" "Yes." "Fairer than I am?" "Well--she has red hair, you see." "Is her father wealthy?" "I shouldn't think so. Of course they're by no means poor." "He's a knight--you said." "He's Sir--he's a baronet." "That means the title's in the family." "Exactly." "Is she a nice girl? You know her--you said so." "Oh yes, she's quite nice. Nothing very particular, nothing very wonderful." She looked full to his eyes, her own starved for knowledge. "You're not telling me the truth," she exclaimed suddenly. "You're telling me all lies. You're trying to save Jack. You know you've said too much in telling me that he was going with her to-night, now you're trying to smooth it over."