In the bedroom where the wraps were laid, she found Cathleen

Calvert preening before the mirror and biting her lips to make

them look redder. There were fresh roses in her sash that matched

her cheeks, and her cornflower-blue eyes were dancing with

excitement.

"Cathleen," said Scarlett, trying to pull the corsage of her dress

higher, "who is that nasty man downstairs named Butler?"

"My dear, don't you know?" whispered Cathleen excitedly, a weather

eye on the next room where Dilcey and the Wilkes girls' mammy were

gossiping. "I can't imagine how Mr. Wilkes must feel having him

here, but he was visiting Mr. Kennedy in Jonesboro--something

about buying cotton--and, of course, Mr. Kennedy had to bring him

along with him. He couldn't just go off and leave him."

"What is the matter with him?"

"My dear, he isn't received!"

"Not really!"

"No."

Scarlett digested this in silence, for she had never before been

under the same roof with anyone who was not received. It was very

exciting.

"What did he do?"

"Oh, Scarlett, he has the most terrible reputation. His name is

Rhett Butler and he's from Charleston and his folks are some of

the nicest people there, but they won't even speak to him. Caro

Rhett told me about him last summer. He isn't any kin to her

family, but she knows all about him, everybody does. He was

expelled from West Point. Imagine! And for things too bad for

Caro to know. And then there was that business about the girl he

didn't marry."

"Do tell me!"

"Darling, don't you know anything? Caro told me all about it last

summer and her mama would die if she thought Caro even knew about

It. Well, this Mr. Butler took a Charleston girl out buggy

riding. I never did know who she was, but I've got my suspicions.

She couldn't have been very nice or she wouldn't have gone out

with him in the late afternoon without a chaperon. And, my dear,

they stayed out nearly all night and walked home finally, saying

the horse had run away and smashed the buggy and they had gotten

lost in the woods. And guess what--"

"I can't guess. Tell me," said Scarlett enthusiastically, hoping

for the worst.

"He refused to marry her the next day!"

"Oh," said Scarlett, her hopes dashed.

"He said he hadn't--er--done anything to her and he didn't see why

he should marry her. And, of course, her brother called him out,

and Mr. Butler said he'd rather be shot than marry a stupid fool.

And so they fought a duel and Mr. Butler shot the girl's brother

and he died, and Mr. Butler had to leave Charleston and now nobody

receives him," finished Cathleen triumphantly, and just in time,

for Dilcey came back into the room to oversee the toilet of her

charge.

"Did she have a baby?" whispered Scarlett in Cathleen's ear.

Cathleen shook her head violently. "But she was ruined just the

same," she hissed back.

I wish I had gotten Ashley to compromise me, thought Scarlett

suddenly. He'd be too much of a gentleman not to marry me. But

somehow, unbidden, she had a feeling of respect for Rhett Butler

for refusing to marry a girl who was a fool.

Scarlett sat on a high rosewood ottoman, under the shade of a huge

oak in the rear of the house, her flounces and ruffles billowing

about her and two inches of green morocco slippers--all that a

lady could show and still remain a lady--peeping from beneath

them. She had scarcely touched plate in her hands and seven

cavaliers about her. The barbecue had reached its peak and the

warm air was full of laughter and talk, the click of silver on

porcelain and the rich heavy smells of roasting meats and redolent

gravies. Occasionally when the slight breeze veered, puffs of

smoke from the long barbecue pits floated over the crowd and were

greeted with squeals of mock dismay from the ladies and violent

flappings of palmetto fans.

Most of the young ladies were seated with partners on the long

benches that faced the tables, but Scarlett, realizing that a girl

has only two sides and only one man can sit on each of these

sides, had elected to sit apart so she could gather about her as

many men as possible.

Under the arbor sat the married women, their dark dresses decorous

notes in the surrounding color and gaiety. Matrons, regardless of

their ages, always grouped together apart from the bright-eyed

girls, beaux and laughter, for there were no married belles in the

South. From Grandma Fontaine, who was belching frankly with the

privilege of her age, to seventeen-year-old Alice Munroe,

struggling against the nausea of a first pregnancy, they had their

heads together in the endless genealogical and obstetrical

discussions that made such gatherings very pleasant and