"I think she'll see me," Rhett's voice floated up to her.
"But she is lying down now, Captain Butler, and won't see anyone. Poor child, she is quite prostrated. She--"
"I think she will see me. Please tell her I am going away tomorrow and may be gone some time. It's very important."
"But--"fluttered Aunt Pittypat.
Scarlett ran out into the hall, observing with some astonishment that her knees were a
little unsteady, and leaned over the banisters.
"I'll be down terrectly, Rhett," she called.
She had a glimpse of Aunt Pittypat's plump upturned face, her eyes owlish with surprise
and disapproval. Now it'll be all over town that I conducted myself most improperly on the day of my husband's funeral, thought Scarlett, as she hurried back to her room and began smoothing her hair. She buttoned her black basque up to the chin and pinned down the collar with Pittypat's mourning brooch. I don't look very pretty she thought, leaning toward the mirror, too white and scared. For a moment her hand went toward the lock box where she kept her rouge hidden but she decided against it. Poor Pittypat would be upset in earnest if she came downstairs pink and
blooming. She picked up the cologne bottle and took a large mouthful, carefully rinsed her mouth and then spit into the slop jar.
She rustled down the stairs toward the two who still stood in the hall, for Pittypat had
been too upset by Scarlett's action to ask Rhett to sit down. He was decorously clad in black, his linen frilly and starched, and his manner was all that custom demanded from an old friend paying a call of sympathy on one bereaved. In fact, it was so perfect that it verged on the burlesque, though Pittypat did not see it. He was properly apologetic for disturbing Scarlett and regretted that in his rush of closing up business before leaving town he had been unable to be present at the funeral.
"Whatever possessed him to come?" wondered Scarlett. "He doesn't mean a word he's saying."
"I hate to intrude on you at this time but I have a matter of business to discuss that will not wait. Something that Mr. Kennedy and I were planning--"
"I didn't know you and Mr. Kennedy had business dealings," said Aunt Pittypat, almost indignant that some of Frank's activities were unknown to her.
"Mr. Kennedy was a man of wide interests," said Rhett respectfully. "Shall we go into the parlor?"
"No!" cried Scarlett, glancing at the closed folding doors. She could still see the coffin in that room. She hoped she never had to enter it again. Pitty, for once, took a hint, although with none too good grace.
"Do use the library. I must--I must go upstairs and get out the mending. Dear me, I've neglected it so this last week. I declare--"
She went up the stairs with a backward look of reproach which was noticed by neither
Scarlett nor Rhett. He stood aside to let her pass before him into the library.
"What business did you and Frank have?" she questioned abruptly.
He came closer and whispered. "None at all. I just wanted to get Miss Pitty out of the way." He paused as he leaned over her. "It's no good, Scarlett."
"What?"
"The cologne."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"I'm sure you do. You've been drinking pretty heavily."
"Well, what if I have? Is it any of your business?"
"The soul of courtesy, even in the depths of sorrow. Don't drink alone, Scarlett. People always find it out and it ruins the reputation. And besides, it's a bad business, this drinking alone.
What's the matter, honey?"
He led her to the rosewood sofa and she sat down in silence.
"May I close the doors?"
She knew if Mammy saw the closed doors she would be scandalized and would lecture
and grumble about it for days, but it would be still worse if Mammy should overhear this
discussion of drinking, especially in light of the missing brandy bottle. She nodded and Rhett drew the sliding doors together. When he came back and sat down beside her, his dark eyes alertly searching her face, the pall of death receded before the vitality he radiated and the room seemed pleasant and home-like again, the lamps rosy and warm.
"What's the matter, honey?"
No one in the world could say that foolish word of endearment as caressingly as Rhett,
even when he was joking, but he did not look as if he were joking now. She raised tormented eyes to his face and somehow found comfort in the blank inscrutability she saw there. She did not
know why this should be, for he was such an unpredictable, callous person. Perhaps it was because, as he often said, they were so much alike. Sometimes she thought that all the people she had ever known were strangers except Rhett.