In a kindly way, that frightened her.

"Come and sit down," he said. "She is dead?"

She nodded and advanced hesitantly toward him, uncertainty taking

form in her mind at this new expression on his face. Without

rising, he pushed back a chair with his foot and she sank into it.

She wished he had not spoken of Melanie so soon. She did not want

to talk of her now, to re-live the agony of the last hour. There

was all the rest of her life in which to speak of Melanie. But it

seemed to her now, driven by a fierce desire to cry: "I love you,"

that there was only this night, this hour, in which to tell Rhett

what was in her mind. But there was something in his face that

stopped her and she was suddenly ashamed to speak of love when

Melanie was hardly cold.

"Well, God rest her," he said heavily. "She was the only completely

kind person I ever knew."

"Oh, Rhett!" she cried miserably, for his words brought up too

Vividly all the kind things Melanie had ever done for her. "Why

didn't you come in with me? It was dreadful--and I needed you so!"

"I couldn't have borne it," he said simply and for a moment he was

silent. Then he spoke with an effort and said, softly: "A very

great lady."

His somber gaze went past her and in his eyes was the same look she

had seen in the light of the flames the night Atlanta fell, when he

told her he was going off with the retreating army--the surprise of

a man who knows himself utterly, yet discovers in himself

unexpected loyalties and emotions and feels a faint self-ridicule

at the discovery.

His moody eyes went over her shoulder as though he saw Melanie

silently passing through the room to the door. In the look of

farewell on his face there was no sorrow, no pain, only a

speculative wonder at himself, only a poignant stirring of emotions

dead since boyhood, as he said again: "A very great lady."

Scarlett shivered and the glow went from her heart, the fine

warmth, the splendor which had sent her home on winged feet. She

half-grasped what was in Rhett's mind as he said farewell to the

only person in the world he respected and she was desolate again

with a terrible sense of loss that was no longer personal. She

could not wholly understand or analyze what he was feeling, but it

seemed almost as if she too had been brushed by whispering skirts,

touching her softly in a last caress. She was seeing through

Rhett's eyes the passing, not of a woman but of a legend--the

gentle, self-effacing but steel-spined women on whom the South had

builded its house in war and to whose proud and loving arms it had

returned in defeat.

His eyes came back to her and his voice changed. Now it was light

and cool.

"So she's dead. That makes it nice for you, doesn't it?"

"Oh, how can you say such things," she cried, stung, the quick

tears coming to her eyes. "You know how I loved her!"

"No, I can't say I did. Most unexpected and it's to your credit,

considering your passion for white trash, that you could appreciate

her at last."

"How can you talk so? Of course I appreciated her! You didn't.

You didn't know her like I did! It isn't in you to understand her--

how good she was--"

"Indeed? Perhaps not."

"She thought of everybody except herself--why, her last words were

about you."

There was a flash of genuine feeling in his eyes as he turned to

her.

"What did she say?"

"Oh, not now, Rhett."

"Tell me."

His voice was cool but the hand he put on her wrist hurt. She did

not want to tell, this was not the way she had intended to lead up

to the subject of her love but his hand was urgent.

"She said--she said-- 'Be kind to Captain Butler. He loves you so

much.'"

He stared at her and dropped her wrist. His eyelids went down,

leaving his face dark and blank. Suddenly he rose and going to the

window, he drew the curtains and looked out intently as if there

were something to see outside except blinding mist.

"Did she say anything else?" he questioned, not turning his head.

"She asked me to take care of little Beau and I said I would, like

he was my own boy."

"What else?"

"She said--Ashley--she asked me to look after Ashley, too."

He was silent for a moment and then he laughed softly. "It's

convenient to have the first wife's permission, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

He turned and even in her confusion she was surprised that there

was no mockery in his face. Nor was there any more interest in it

than in the face of a man watching the last act of a none-too-

amusing comedy.

"I think my meaning's plain enough. Miss Melly is dead. You

certainly have all the evidence you want to divorce me and you

haven't enough reputation left for a divorce to hurt you. And you

haven't any religion left, so the Church won't matter. Then--

Ashley and dreams come true with the blessings of Miss Melly."

"Divorce?" she cried. "No! No!" Incoherent for a moment she

leaped to her feet and running to him caught his arm. "Oh, you're

all wrong! Terribly wrong. I don't want a divorce--I--" She

stopped for she could find no other words.

He put his hand under her chin, quietly turned her face up to the

light and looked for an intent moment into her eyes. She looked up

at him, her heart in her eyes, her lips quivering as she tried to

speak. But she could marshal no words because she was trying to

find in his face some answering emotions, some leaping light of

hope, of joy. Surely he must know, now! But the smooth dark

blankness which had baffled her so often was all that her frantic,

searching eyes could find. He dropped her chin and, turning,

walked back to his chair and sprawled tiredly again, his chin on

his breast, his eyes looking up at her from under black brows in an