Vexed if you take on so. I'll go to town and see how things are."

And she went, smiling as she smothered his feeble protests. During

the three weeks of her new marriage, she had been in a fever to see

his account books and find out just how money matters stood. What

luck that he was bedridden!

The store stood near Five Points, its new roof glaring against the

smoked bricks of the old walls. Wooden awnings covered the

sidewalk to the edge of the street, and at the long iron bars

connecting the uprights horses and mules were hitched, their heads

bowed against the cold misty rain, their backs covered with torn

blankets and quilts. The inside of the store was almost like

Bullard's store in Jonesboro, except that there were no loungers

about the roaring red-hot stove, whittling and spitting streams of

tobacco juice at the sand boxes. It was bigger than Bullard's

store and much darker. The wooden awnings cut off most of the

winter daylight and the interior was dim and dingy, only a trickle

of light coming in through the small fly-specked windows high up on

the side walls. The floor was covered with muddy sawdust and

everywhere was dust and dirt. There was a semblance of order in

the front of the store, where tall shelves rose into the gloom

stacked with bright bolts of cloth, china, cooking utensils and

notions. But in the back, behind the partition, chaos reigned.

Here there was no flooring and the assorted jumble of stock was

piled helter-skelter on the hard-packed earth. In the semi-

darkness she saw boxes and bales of goods, plows and harness and

saddles and cheap pine coffins. Secondhand furniture, ranging from

cheap gum to mahogany and rosewood, reared up in the gloom, and the

rich but worn brocade and horsehair upholstery gleamed incongruously

in the dingy surroundings. China chambers and bowl and pitcher sets

littered the floor and all around the four walls were deep bins, so

dark she had to hold the lamp directly over them to discover they

contained seeds, nails, bolts and carpenters' tools.

"I'd think a man as fussy and old maidish as Frank would keep

things tidier," she thought, scrubbing her grimy hands with her

handkerchief. "This place is a pig pen. What a way to run a

store! If he'd only dust up this stuff and put it out in front

where folks could see it, he could sell things much quicker."

And if his stock was in such condition, what mustn't his accounts

be!

I'll look at his account book now, she thought and, picking up the

lamp, she went into the front of the store. Willie, the counter

boy, was reluctant to give her the large dirty-backed ledger. It

was obvious that, young as he was, he shared Frank's opinion that

women had no place in business. But Scarlett silenced him with a

sharp word and sent him out to get his dinner. She felt better

when he was gone, for his disapproval annoyed her, and she settled

herself in a split-bottomed chair by the roaring stove, tucked one

foot under her and spread the book across her lap. It was dinner

time and the streets were deserted. No customers called and she

had the store to herself.

She turned the pages slowly, narrowly scanning the rows of names

and figures written in Frank's cramped copperplate hand. It was

just as she had expected, and she frowned as she saw this newest

evidence of Frank's lack of business sense. At least five hundred

dollars in debts, some of them months old, were set down against

the names of people she knew well, the Merriwethers and the Elsings

among other familiar names. From Frank's deprecatory remarks about

the money "people" owed him, she had imagined the sums to be small.

But this!

"If they can't pay, why do they keep on buying?" she thought

irritably. "And if he knows they can't pay, why does he keep on

selling them stuff? Lots of them could pay if he'd just make them

do it. The Elsings certainly could if they could give Fanny a new

satin dress and an expensive wedding. Frank's just too soft

hearted, and people take advantage of him. Why, if he'd collected

half this money, he could have bought the sawmill and easily spared

me the tax money, too."

Then she thought: "Just imagine Frank trying to operate a sawmill!

God's nightgown! If he runs this store like a charitable

institution, how could he expect to make money on a mill? The

sheriff would have it in a month. Why, I could run this store

better than he does! And I could run a mill better than he could,

even if I don't know anything about the lumber business!"

A startling thought this, that a woman could handle business

matters as well as or better than a man, a revolutionary thought to

Scarlett who had been reared in the tradition that men were

omniscient and women none too bright. Of course, she had

discovered that this was not altogether true but the pleasant

fiction still stuck in her mind. Never before had she put this

remarkable idea into words. She sat quite still, with the heavy

book across her lap, her mouth a little open with surprise,

thinking that during the lean months at Tara she had done a man's

work and done it well. She had been brought up to believe that a

woman alone could accomplish nothing, yet she had managed the

plantation without men to help her until Will came. Why, why, her

mind stuttered, I believe women could manage everything in the

world without men's help--except having babies, and God knows, no

woman in her right mind would have babies if she could help it.

With the idea that she was as capable as a man came a sudden rush

of pride and a violent longing to prove it, to make money for

herself as men made money. Money which would be her own, which she

would neither have to ask for nor account for to any man.

"I wish I had money enough to buy that mill myself," she said aloud

and sighed. "I'd sure make it hum. And I wouldn't let even one

splinter go out on credit."

She sighed again. There was nowhere she could get any money, so

the idea was out of the question. Frank would simply have to

collect this money owing him and buy the mill. It was a sure way

to make money, and when he got the mill, she would certainly find

some way to make him be more businesslike in its operation than he

had been with the store.

She pulled a back page out of the ledger and began copying the list

of debtors who had made no payments in several months. She'd take

the matter up with Frank just as soon as she reached home. She'd

make him realize that these people had to pay their bills even if

they were old friends, even if it did embarrass him to press them

for money. That would probably upset Frank, for he was timid and

fond of the approbation of his friends. He was so thin skinned

he'd rather lose the money than be businesslike about collecting

it.

And he'd probably tell her that no one had any money with which to

pay him. Well, perhaps that was true. Poverty was certainly no

news to her. But nearly everybody had saved some silver or jewelry

or was hanging on to a little real estate. Frank could take them

in lieu of cash.

She could imagine how Frank would moan when she broached such an

idea to him. Take the jewelry and property of his friends! Well,

she shrugged, he can moan all he likes. I'm going to tell him that

he may be willing to stay poor for friendship's sake but I'm not.

Frank will never get anywhere if he doesn't get up some gumption.

And he's got to get somewhere! He's got to make money, even if

I've got to wear the pants in the family to make him do.

She was writing busily, her face screwed up with the effort, her

tongue clamped between her teeth, when the front door opened and a

great draft of cold wind swept the store. A tall man came into the

dingy room walking with a light Indian-like tread, and looking up

she saw Rhett Butler.

He was resplendent in new clothes and a greatcoat with a dashing

cape thrown back from his heavy shoulders. His tall hat was off in

a deep bow when her eyes met his and his hand went to the bosom of

a spotless pleated shirt. His white teeth gleamed startlingly

against his brown face and his bold eyes raked her.

"My dear Mrs. Kennedy," he said, walking toward her. "My very dear

Mrs. Kennedy!" and he broke into a loud merry laugh.

At first she was as startled as if a ghost had invaded the store

and then, hastily removing her foot from beneath her, she stiffened

her spine and gave him a cold stare.

"What are you doing here?"

"I called on Miss Pittypat and learned of your marriage and so I

hastened here to congratulate you."

The memory of her humiliation at his hands made her go crimson with

shame.

"I don't see how you have the gall to face me!" she cried.

"On the contrary! How have you the gall to face me?"

"Oh, you are the most--"

"Shall we let the bugles sing truce?" he smiled down at her, a wide

flashing smile that had impudence in it but no shame for his own

actions or condemnation for hers. In spite of herself, she had to

smile too, but it was a wry, uncomfortable smile.

"What a pity they didn't hang you!"

"Others share your feeling, I fear. Come, Scarlett, relax. You

look like you'd swallowed a ramrod and it isn't becoming. Surely,

you've had time to recover from my--er--my little joke."

"Joke? Ha! I'll never get over it!"

"Oh, yes, you will. You are just putting on this indignant front

because you think it's proper and respectable. May I sit down?"

"No."

He sank into a chair beside her and grinned.

"I hear you couldn't even wait two weeks for me," he said and gave

a mock sigh. "How fickle is woman!"

When she did not reply he continued.

"Tell me, Scarlett, just between friends--between very old and very