The car had been run into one of the coach-houses and the yard stood empty, sunlit, silent, save for the voices of the pigeons wheeling in the air, or strutting on the roof of the great barn adjoining the stables. One of the stable doors was open and as Phyl crossed the yard a young man appeared at the open door, shaded his eyes and looked at her. Then he came forward. It was Silas Grangerson, and Phyl thought he was the handsomest and most graceful person she had ever seen in her life. Silas was a shade over six feet in height, dark, straight, slim yet perfectly proportioned; his face was extraordinary, the most vivid thing one would meet in a year's journey, and with a daring, and at times, almost a mad look unforgettable when once glimpsed. Like the Colonel and like his ancestors Silas had a direct way with women. "Hallo," said he, with the sunny smile of old acquaintanceship, "where have _you_ sprung from?" Phyl was startled for a moment, then almost instantly she came in touch with the vein and mood and mind of the other and laughed. "I came with Miss Pinckney," said she. "You're not from Charleston?" "Yes, indeed I am." "But where do you live in Charleston? I've never seen you and I know every--besides you don't look as if you belonged to Charleston--I don't believe you've come from there." "Then where do you think I've come from?" "I don't know," said Silas laughing, "but it doesn't matter as long as you're here, does it? 'Scuse my fooling, won't you--I wouldn't with a stranger, but you don't seem a stranger somehow--though I don't know your name." "Phylice Berknowles," said Phyl, glancing up at him and half wondering how it was that, despite his good looks, his manhood, and their total unacquaintanceship, she felt as little constrained in his presence as though he were a boy. "And my name is Silas Grangerson. Say, is Maria Pinckney in the house with father?" "She is." "Talking over old times, I s'pose?" said Silas. "Yes!" "I can hear them. It's always the same when they get together--and I suppose you got sick of it and came out?" "No, they put me out--asked me wouldn't I like to look at the garden." Already she had banded herself with him in mild opposition to the elders. "Great--Jerusalem. They're just like a pair of old horses wanting to be left quiet and rub their nose-bags together. Look at the garden! I can hear them--come on and look at the horses." He led the way to a loose box and opened the upper door. "That's Flying Fox, she's mine, the fastest trotter in the Carolinas--you know anything about horses?" "Rather!" "I thought you did, somehow. Mind! she doesn't take to strangers. Mind! she bites like an alligator." "Not me," said Phyl, fondling the lovely but fleering-eyed head protruding above the lower door.