One bright morning three days later, as Phyl was crossing Meeting Street near the Charleston Hotel, whom should she meet but Silas.
Silas in town get up, quite a different looking individual from the Silas of Grangersons, dressed in perfectly fitting light grey tweed, a figure almost condoning one for the use of that old-time, half-discredited word “Elegant.”
“There you are,” said Silas, his face lighting up. “I thought it wouldn’t be long before I met you. Meeting Street is like a rabbit run, and I reckon the whole of Charleston passes through it twice a day.”
His manner was genuinely frank and open, and he seemed to have completely forgotten the incident of the kissing. Phyl said nothing for a moment; she felt put out, angry at having been caught like a rabbit, and not over pleased at being compared to one.
Then she spoke freezingly enough:
“I don’t know much about the habits of Charleston; you will not find me here every day. I have only been out twice here alone and—I’m in a hurry.”
“Why, what’s the matter with you?” cried Silas in a voice of astonishment.
“But there is, you’re not angry with me, are you?”
“Not in the least,” replied the other, quite determined to avoid being drawn into explanations.