"How much did you lose?"
"Why, I won, naturally. A drink or two helps me game."
"Look in your wallet."
As if every movement was agony, Gerald removed his wallet from his coat and opened it.
It was empty and he looked at it in forlorn bewilderment.
"Five hundred dollars," he said. "And 'twas to buy things from the blockaders for Mrs.
O'Hara, and now not even fare left to Tara."
As she looked indignantly at the empty purse, an idea took form in Scarlett's mind and
grew swiftly.
"I'll not be holding up my head in this town," she began. "You've disgraced us all."
"Hold your tongue, Puss. Can you not see me head is bursting?"
"Coming home drunk with a man like Captain Butler, and singing at the top of your lungs for everyone to hear and losing all that money."
"The man is too clever with cards to be a gentleman. He--"
"What will Mother say when she hears?"
He looked up in sudden anguished apprehension.
"You wouldn't be telling your mother a word and upsetting her, now would you?"
Scarlett said nothing but pursed her lips.
"Think now how 'twould hurt her and her so gentle."
"And to think, Pa, that you said only last night I had disgraced the family! Me, with my poor little dance to make money for the soldiers. Oh, I could cry."
"Well, don't," pleaded Gerald. " 'Twould be more than me poor head could stand and sure
'tis bursting now."
"And you said that I--"
"Now Puss, now Puss, don't you be hurt at what your poor old father said and him not meaning a thing and not understanding a thing! Sure, you're a fine well-meaning girl, I'm sure."
"And wanting to take me home in disgrace."
"Ah, darling, I wouldn't be doing that. 'Twas to tease you. You won't be mentioning the money to your mother and her in a flutter about expenses already?"
"No," said Scarlett frankly, "I won't, if you'll let me stay here and if you'll tell Mother that
'twas nothing but a lot of gossip from old cats."
Gerald looked mournfully at his daughter.
" 'Tis blackmail, no less."
"And last night was a scandal, no less."
"Well," he began wheedlingly, "we'll be forgetting all that. And do you think a fine pretty lady like Miss Pittypat would be having any brandy in the house? The hair of the dog--"
Scarlett turned and tiptoed through the silent hall into the dining room to get the brandy bottle that she and Melly privately called the "swoon bottle" because Pittypat always took a sip from it when her fluttering heart made her faint--or seem to faint. Triumph was written on her face and no trace of shame for her unfilial treatment of Gerald. Now Ellen would be soothed with lies if any other busybody wrote her. Now she could stay in Atlanta. Now she could do almost as she pleased, Pittypat being the weak vessel that she was. She unlocked the cellaret and stood for a moment with the bottle and glass pressed to her bosom.
She saw a long vista of picnics by the bubbling waters of Peachtree Creek and barbecues
at Stone Mountain, receptions and balls, afternoon danceables, buggy rides and Sunday-night buffet suppers. She would be there, right in the heart of things, right in the center of a crowd of men. And men fell in love so easily, after you did little things for them at the hospital. She wouldn't mind the hospital so much now. Men were so easily stirred when they had been ill. They fell into a clever girl's hand just like the ripe peaches at Tara when the trees were gently shaken.
She went back toward her father with me reviving liquor, thanking Heaven that the
famous O'Hara head had not been able to survive last night's bout and wondering suddenly if Rhett Butler had had anything to do with that.
CHAPTER XI
ON AN AFTERNOON of the following week, Scarlett came home from the hospital weary and
indignant. She was tired from standing on her feet all morning and irritable because Mrs.
Merriwether had scolded her sharply for sitting on a soldier's bed while she dressed his wounded arm. Aunt Pitty and Melanie, bonneted in their best were on the porch with Wade and Prissy, ready for their weekly round of calls. Scarlett asked to be excused from accompanying them and went upstairs to her room.
When the last sound of carriage wheels had died away and she knew the family was
safely out of sight she slipped quietly into Melanie's room and turned the key in the lock. It was a prim, virginal little room and it lay still and warm in the slanting rays of the four-o'clock sun. The floors were glistening and bare except for a few bright rag rugs, and the white walls