“I am in love with no one,” said she; “you have no right to say such things—no right at all—they are insulting.”
A gull, white as snow, came flitting by and wheeled out away over the harbour; as her eyes followed it he stood looking at her, his anger gone, but his mind only half convinced by her feeble words.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” he said; “don’t let us quarrel. When I’m in a temper I don’t know what I say or do—that’s the truth. I want to have you all for myself, have ever since the first moment I saw you over there at Grangersons.”
“Don’t,” said Phyl. “I can’t listen to you if you talk like that—Please don’t.”
“Very well,” said Silas.
The quick change that was one of his characteristics showed itself in his altered voice. His was a mind that seemed always in ambush, darting out on predatory expeditions and then vanishing back into obscurity.
They turned away from the sea front and began to retrace their steps, silently at first, and then little by little falling into ordinary conversation again as though nothing had happened.
Silas knew every corner of Charleston, and the history of every corner, and when he chose he could make his knowledge interesting. In this mood he was a pleasant companion, and Phyl, her recent experience almost forgotten, let herself be led and instructed, not knowing that this armistice was the equivalent of a defeat.
She had already drawn much closer to him in mind, this companionship and quiet conversation was a more sure and deadly thing than any kisses or wild words. It would linger in her mind warm and quietly. Put in a woman’s mind a pleasant recollection of yourself and you have established a force whose activity may seem small, but is in reality great, because of its permanency.
They did not take a direct line in the direction of Vernons, and so presently found themselves in front of St. Michael’s. The gate of the cemetery was open and they wandered in.