"Oh, she's blind. I tell you he is, and she'll be your guardian when he's married her." "That she won't," said Phyl. "How'll you help it? A man and wife are one." "He's only guardian of my property." "Well, Heaven help your property when she gets a finger in the pie; she'll spend it on hats--sure." This outrageous statement, uttered with a laugh, left Phyl cold. The statement about Frances Rhett had disturbed her, she could not tell exactly why, for it was none of her business whom Pinckney might choose to marry--still--Frances Rhett! It was almost as though an antagonism had existed between them since that afternoon when she had seen Frances first, driving in the car with Richard Pinckney. She rose to her feet and Silas rose also, throwing away the end of his cigarette. "Going into the house?" said he. "Yes!" "Well, you'll be off to-morrow morning, and I won't see you, for I have to be out early, but I'll see you in Charleston, though not at Vernons maybe, for I'm not in love with Richard Pinckney, and I don't care much for visiting his house. But I'll see you somewhere, sure." "Good-bye," said she holding out her hand. He took it, held it, and then, all of a sudden, she found herself in his arms. Helpless as a child, in his arms and smothered with kisses. He kissed her on the mouth, on the forehead, on the chin, and with a last kiss on the mouth that made her feel as though her life were going from her, he vanished. Vanished amidst the bushes whilst she stood, tottering, dazed, breathless, outraged, yet--in some extraordinary way not angry. Pulled between tears and laughter, resentment, and a strange new feeling suddenly born in her from his burning lips, and the strength that had held her for a moment to itself. In one moment, and as though with the stroke of a sword, Silas had cut down the barrier that had divided her from the reality of things. He had kissed away her childhood. Then throwing out her hands as though pushing away some presence that was surrounding her, she ran to the house. In the hall she sat down for a moment to recover herself before going into the drawing room, where Miss Pinckney and the Colonel were closing the book which held for them the people and the places they had known in youth, and between its leaves who knows what old remembrances, like the withered flower that has once formed part of a summer's day. CHAPTER IV They started at ten o'clock next morning for Charleston, the Colonel standing on the house steps and waving his hand to them as they drove off. Silas was nowhere to be seen, he had gone out before breakfast, so the butler said, and had not returned. Miss Pinckney resented this casual treatment.