"He's such an irresponsible creature," she replied. "I'm going to tell you something, and mind, what I'm going to tell you is a secret you mustn't breathe to any one: he's in love with Phyl." "Silas?" "Yes. I knew it wouldn't be long before some one was after her. She's the prettiest girl in Charleston, and she's different from the others somehow." The cunning of the woman held her from praise of Phyl's goodness and mental qualities, or any over praise of the goods she was bringing to his attention. "Has he spoken to her about it?" asked he. "I'm sure to goodness I don't know what I'm about telling you a thing that was told to me in confidence," said the other. "Well, you promise never to say a word to Phyl or to any one else if I tell you." "I promise." "Well, he's--he's kissed her." Richard Pinckney leaned forward in his chair. He seemed very much disturbed in his mind. "Does she care for him?" "I don't believe she does--yet. They always begin like that; girls don't know their minds till all of a sudden they find some man who does." "Well, let's hope she never cares for Silas Grangerson," said he rising from his chair. "You know what he is." He left the room and went out on the piazza where the girl was sitting. He sat down beside her and they fell into talk. Richard Pinckney's mind was disturbed. Only the day before he had proposed to Frances Rhett and had been accepted. No one knew anything of the engagement; they had decided to say nothing about it for a while, but just keep it to themselves. The trouble with Pinckney was that Frances had, so to say, put the words of the proposal into his mouth. Frances had flirted with every man in Charleston; out of them all she had chosen Pinckney as a permanent attache, not because she was in love with him but because he pleased her best. She matched him against the others, as a woman matches silk. Pinckney had allowed himself to be led along; there is nothing easier than to be led along by a pretty woman. When the trap had closed on him he recognised the fact without resenting it. He was no longer a free man. Phyl had told him this without speaking. For some time past he had been admiring her, and yesterday on returning in chains from Calhoun Street, Phyl picking roses in the garden seemed to him the prettiest picture he had seen for a long time, but it did not give him pleasure; it stirred the first vague uneasy recognition that his chains had wrought. He had no right to look at any girl but Frances--and he had been looking at her for a year without the picture stirring any wild enthusiasm in his mind. Miss Pinckney's revelation as to Silas had come to him as a blow. He could not tell what had hit him or exactly where he had been hit. What did it matter to him if a dozen men were in love with Phyl? What right had he to feel injured? None, yet he felt injured all the same.