“He is—Venetia Frances, the one that lives in Legare Street. Why, I’ve seen them canoodling often, and every one says they are engaged.”
“Well, he’s not, or Miss Pinckney would have told me.”
“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.