In a moment he would ask her to marry him--or at least say that he

loved her and then . . . As she watched him through the veil of

her lashes he turned her hand over, palm up, to kiss it too, and

suddenly he drew a quick breath. Looking down she saw her own

palm, saw it as it really was for the first time in a year, and a

cold sinking fear gripped her. This was a stranger's palm, not

Scarlett O'Hara's soft, white, dimpled, helpless one. This hand

was rough from work, brown with sunburn, splotched with freckles.

The nails were broken and irregular, there were heavy calluses on

the cushions of the palm, a half-healed blister on the thumb. The

red scar which boiling fat had left last month was ugly and

glaring. She looked at it in horror and, before she thought, she

swiftly clenched her fist.

Still he did not raise his head. Still she could not see his face.

He pried her fist open inexorably and stared at it, picked up her

other hand and held them both together silently, looking down at

them.

"Look at me," he said finally raising his head, and his voice was

Very quiet. "And drop that demure expression."

Unwillingly she met his eyes, defiance and perturbation on her

face. His black brows were up and his eyes gleamed.

"So you have been doing very nicely at Tara, have you? Cleared so

much money on the cotton you can go visiting. What have you been

doing with your hands--plowing?"

She tried to wrench them away but he held them hard, running his

thumbs over the calluses.

"These are not the hands of a lady," he said and tossed them into

her lap.

"Oh, shut up!" she cried, feeling a momentary intense relief at

being able to speak her feelings. "Whose business is it what I do

with my hands?"

What a fool I am, she thought vehemently. I should have borrowed

or stolen Aunt Pitty's gloves. But I didn't realize my hands

looked so bad. Of course, he would notice them. And now I've lost

my temper and probably ruined everything. Oh, to have this happen

when he was right at the point of a declaration!

"Your hands are certainly no business of mine," said Rhett coolly

and lounged back in his chair indolently, his face a smooth blank.

So he was going to be difficult. Well, she'd have to bear it

meekly, much as she disliked it, if she expected to snatch victory

from this debacle. Perhaps if she sweet-talked him--

"I think you're real rude to throw off on my poor hands. Just

because I went riding last week without my gloves and ruined them--"

"Riding, hell!" he said in the same level voice. "You've been

working with those hands, working like a nigger. What's the

answer? Why did you lie to me about everything being nice at

Tara?"

"Now, Rhett--"

"Suppose we get down to the truth. What is the real purpose of

your visit? Almost, I was persuaded by your coquettish airs that

you cared something about me and were sorry for me."

"Oh, I am sorry! Indeed--"

"No, you aren't. They can hang me higher than Haman for all you

care. It's written as plainly on your face as hard work is written

on your hands. You wanted something from me and you wanted it

badly enough to put on quite a show. Why didn't you come out in

the open and tell me what it was? You'd have stood a much better

chance of getting it, for if there's one virtue I value in women