Innovation of dress or hair.

As she struggled with her bushy, obstinate locks, perspiration

beading her forehead, she heard light running feet in the

downstairs hall and knew that Melanie was home from the hospital.

As she heard her fly up the stairs, two at a time, she paused,

hairpin in mid-air, realizing that something must be wrong, for

Melanie always moved as decorously as a dowager. She went to the

door and threw it open, and Melanie ran in, her face flushed and

frightened, looking like a guilty child.

There were tears on her cheeks, her bonnet was hanging on her neck

by the ribbons and her hoops swaying violently. She was clutching

something in her hand, and the reek of heavy cheap perfume came

Into the room with her.

"Oh, Scarlett!" she cried, shutting the door and sinking on the

bed. "Is Auntie home yet? She isn't? Oh, thank the Lord!

Scarlett, I'm so mortified I could die! I nearly swooned and,

Scarlett, Uncle Peter is threatening to tell Aunt Pitty!"

"Tell what?"

"That I was talking to that--to Miss--Mrs.--" Melanie fanned her

hot face with her handkerchief. "That woman with red hair, named

Belle Watling!"

"Why, Melly!" cried Scarlett, so shocked she could only stare.

Belle Watling was the red-haired woman she had seen on the street

the first day she came to Atlanta and by now, she was easily the

most notorious woman in town. Many prostitutes had flocked into

Atlanta, following the soldiers, but Belle stood out above the

rest, due to her flaming hair and the gaudy, overly fashionable

dresses she wore. She was seldom seen on Peachtree Street or in

any nice neighborhood, but when she did appear respectable women

made haste to cross the street to remove themselves from her

Vicinity. And Melanie had been talking with her. No wonder Uncle

Peter was outraged.

"I shall die if Aunt Pitty finds out! You know she'll cry and

tell everybody in town and I'll be disgraced," sobbed Melanie.

"And it wasn't my fault. I--I couldn't run away from her. It

would have been so rude. Scarlett, I--I felt sorry for her. Do

you think I'm bad for feeling that way?"

But Scarlett was not concerned with the ethics of the matter.

Like most innocent and well-bred young women, she had a devouring

curiosity about prostitutes.

"What did she want? What does she talk like?"

"Oh, she used awful grammar but I could see she was trying so hard

to be elegant, poor thing. I came out of the hospital and Uncle

Peter and the carriage weren't waiting, so I thought I'd walk

home. And when I went by the Emersons' yard, there she was hiding

behind the hedge! Oh, thank Heaven, the Emersons are in Macon!

And she said, 'Please, Mrs. Wilkes, do speak a minute with me.' I

don't know how she knew my name. I knew I ought to run as hard as

I could but--well, Scarlett, she looked so sad and--well, sort of

pleading. And she had on a black dress and black bonnet and no

paint and really looked decent but for that red hair. And before

I could answer she said. 'I know I shouldn't speak to you but I

tried to talk to that old peahen, Mrs. Elsing, and she ran me away

from the hospital.'"

"Did she really call her a peahen?" said Scarlett pleasedly and

laughed.

"Oh, don't laugh. It isn't funny. It seems that Miss--this

woman, wanted to do something for the hospital--can you imagine

it? She offered to nurse every morning and, of course, Mrs.

Elsing must have nearly died at the idea and ordered her out of

the hospital. And then she said, 'I want to do something, too.

Ain't I a Confedrut, good as you?' And, Scarlett, I was right

touched at her wanting to help. You know, she can't be all bad if

she wants to help the Cause. Do you think I'm bad to feel that

way?"

"For Heaven's sake, Melly, who cares if you're bad? What else did

she say?"

"She said she'd been watching the ladies go by to the hospital and

thought I had--a--a kind face and so she stopped me. She had some

money and she wanted me to take it and use it for the hospital and

not tell a soul where it came from. She said Mrs. Elsing wouldn't

let it be used if she knew what kind of money it was. What kind

of money! That's when I thought I'd swoon! And I was so upset

and anxious to get away, I just said: 'Oh, yes, indeed, how sweet

of you' or something idiotic, and she smiled and said: 'That's

right Christian of you' and shoved this dirty handkerchief into my

hand. Ugh, can you smell the perfume?"

Melanie held out a man's handkerchief, soiled and highly perfumed,