LITMIR.BIZ

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you think I still want you? What makes you think you are worth three hundred dollars? Most women don't come that high.”

      She blushed to her hair line and her humiliation was complete.

      “Why are you doing this? Why not let the farm go and live at Miss Pittypat's. You own half that house.”

      “Name of God!” she cried. “Are you a fool? I can't let Tara go. It's home. I won't let it go. Not while I've got breath left in me!”

      “The Irish,” said he, lowering his chair back to level and removing his hands from his pockets, “are the damnedest race. They put so much emphasis on so many wrong things. Land, for instance. And every bit of earth is just like every other bit. Now, let me get this straight, Scarlett. You are coming to me with a business proposition. I'll give you three hundred dollars and you'll become my mistress.”

      “Yes.”

      Now that the repulsive word had been said, she felt somehow easier and hope awoke in her again. He had said “I'll give you.” There was a diabolic gleam in his eyes as if something amused him greatly.

      “And yet, when I had the effrontery to make you this same proposition, you turned me out of the house. And also you called me a number of very hard names and mentioned in passing that you didn't want a 'passel of brats.' No, my dear, I'm not rubbing it in. I'm only wondering at the peculiarities of your mind. You wouldn't do it for your own pleasure but you will to keep the wolf away from the door. It proves my point that all virtue is merely a matter of prices.”

      “Oh, Rhett, how you run on! If you want to insult me, go on and do it but give me the money.”

      She was breathing easier now. Being what he was, Rhett would naturally want to torment and insult her as much as possible to pay her back for past slights and for her recent attempted trickery. Well, she could stand it. She could stand anything. Tara was worth it all. For a brief moment it was mid-summer and the afternoon skies were blue and she lay drowsily in the thick clover of Tara's lawn, looking up at the billowing cloud castles, the fragrance of white blossoms in her nose and the pleasant busy humming of bees in her ears. Afternoon and hush and the far-off sound of the wagons coming in from the spiraling red fields. Worth it all, worth more.

      Her head went up.

      “Are you going to give me the money?”

      He looked as if he were enjoying himself and when he spoke there was suave brutality in his voice.

      “No, I'm not,” he said.

      For a moment her mind could not adjust itself to his words.

      “I couldn't give it to you, even if I wanted to. I haven't a cent on me. Not a dollar in Atlanta. I have some money, yes, but not here. And I'm not saying where it is or how much. But if I tried to draw a draft on it, the Yankees would be on me like a duck on a June bug and then neither of us would get it. What do you think of that?”

      Her face went an ugly green, freckles suddenly standing out across her nose and her contorted mouth was like Gerald's in a killing rage. She sprang to her feet with an incoherent cry which made the hum of voices in the next room cease suddenly. Swift as a panther, Rhett was beside her, his heavy hand across her mouth, his arm tight about her waist. She struggled against him madly, trying to bite his hand, to kick his legs, to scream her rage, despair, hate, her agony of broken pride. She bent and twisted every way against the iron of his arm, her heart near bursting, her tight stays cutting off her breath. He held her so tightly, so roughly that it hurt and the hand over her mouth pinched into her jaws cruelly. His face was white under its tan, his eyes hard and anxious as he lifted her completely off her feet, swung her up against his chest and sat down in the chair, holding her writhing in his lap.

      “Darling, for God's sake! Stop! Hush! Don't yell. They'll be in here in a minute if you do. Do calm yourself. Do you want the Yankees to see you like this?”

      She was beyond caring who saw her, beyond anything except a fiery desire to kill him, but dizziness was sweeping her. She could not breathe; he was choking her; her stays were like a swiftly compressing band of iron; his arms about her made her shake with helpless hate and fury. Then his voice became thin and dim and his face above her swirled in a sickening mist which became heavier and heavier until she no longer saw him-or anything else.

      When she made feeble swimming motions to come back to consciousness, she was tired to her bones, weak, bewildered. She was lying back in the chair, her bonnet off, Rhett was slapping her wrist, his black eyes searching her face anxiously. The nice young captain was trying to pour a glass of brandy into her mouth and had spilled it down her neck. The other officers hovered helplessly about, whispering and waving their hands.

      “I-guess I must have fainted,” she said, and her voice sounded so far away it frightened her.

      “Drink this,” said Rhett, taking the glass and pushing it against her lips. Now she remembered and glared feebly at him but she was too tired for anger.

      “Please, for my sake.”

      She gulped and choked and began coughing but he pushed it to her mouth again. She swallowed deeply and the hot liquid burned suddenly in her throat.

      “I think she's better now, gentlemen,” said Rhett, “and I thank you very much. The realization that I'm to be executed was too much for her.”

      The group in blue shuffled their feet and looked embarrassed and after several clearings of throats, they tramped out. The young captain paused in the doorway.

      “If there's anything more I can do-”

      “No, thank you.”

      He went out, closing the door behind him.

      “Drink some more,” said Rhett.

      “No.”

      “Drink it.”

      She swallowed another mouthful and the warmth began spreading through her body and strength flowed slowly back into her shaking legs. She pushed away the glass and tried to rise but he pressed her back.

      “Take your hands off me. I'm going.”

      “Not yet. Wait a minute. You might faint again.”

      “I'd rather faint in the road than be here with you.”

      “Just the same, I won't have you fainting in the road.”

      “Let me go. I hate you.”

      A faint smile came back to his face at her words.

      “That sounds more like you. You must be feeling better.”

      She lay relaxed for a moment, trying to summon anger to her aid, trying to draw on her strength. But she was too tired. She was too tired to hate or to care very much about anything. Defeat lay on her spirit like lead. She had gambled everything and lost everything. Not even pride was left. This was the dead end of her last hope. This was the end of Tara, the end of them all. For a long time she lay back with her eyes closed, hearing his heavy breathing near her, and the glow of the brandy crept gradually over her, giving a false strength and warmth. When finally she opened her eyes and looked him in the face, anger had roused again. As her slanting eyebrows rushed down together in a frown Rhett's old smile came back.

      “Now you are better. I can tell it by your scowl.”

      “Of course, I'm all right. Rhett Butler, you are hateful, a skunk, if ever I saw one! You knew very well what I was going to say as soon as I started talking and you knew you weren't going to give me the money. And yet you let me go right on. You could have spared me-”

      “Spared you and missed hearing all that? Not much. I have so few diversions here. I don't know when I've ever heard anything so gratifying.” He laughed his sudden mocking laugh. At the sound she leaped to her feet, snatching up her bonnet.

      He suddenly had her by the shoulders.

      “Not quite yet. Do you feel well enough to talk sense?”

      “Let me go!”

      “You are well enough, I see. Then, tell me this. Was I the only iron you had in the fire?” His eyes were keen and alert, watching

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