“Genteel starvation， I think—and hope. It served him right. He was willing to let Mother and Rosemary starve with him. Now that he’s dead， I can help them. I’ve bought them a house on the Battery and they’ve servants to look after them. But of course， they couldn’t let it be known that the money came from me.”
“Why not？”
“My dear， surely you know Charleston！ You’ve visited there. My family may be poor but they have a position to uphold. And they couldn’t uphold it if it were known that gambling money and speculator’s money and Carpetbag money was behind it. No， they gave it out that Father left an enormous life insurance—that he’d beggared himself and starved himself to death to keep up the payments， so that after he died， they’d be provided for. So he is looked upon as an even greater gentleman of the old school than before. ... In fact， a martyr to his family. I hope he’s turning in his grave at the knowledge that Mother and Rosemary are comfortable now， in spite of his efforts. ... In a way， I’m sorry he’s dead because he wanted to die— was so glad to die.”
“Why？”
“Oh， he really died when Lee surrendered. You know the type. He never could adjust himself to the new times and spent his time talking about the good old days.”
“Rhett， are all old folks like that？” She was thinking of Gerald and what Will had said about him.
“Heavens， no！ Just look at your Uncle Henry and that old wild cat， Mr. Merriwether， just to name two. They took a new lease on life when they marched out with the Home Guard and it seems to me that they’ve gotten younger and more peppery ever since. I met old man Merriwether this morning driving René’s pie wagon and cursing the horse like an army mule skinner. He told me he felt ten years younger since he escaped from the house and his daughter-in-law’s coddling and took to driving the wagon. And your Uncle Henry enjoys fighting the Yankees in court and out and defending the widow and the orphan—free of charge， I fear—against the Carpetbaggers. If there hadn’t been a war， he’d have retired long ago and nursed his rheumatism. They’re young again because they are of use again and feel that they are needed. And they like this new day that gives old men another chance. But there are plenty of people， young people， who feel like my father and your father. They can’t and won’t adjust and that brings me to the unpleasant subject I want to discuss with you， Scarlett.”
His sudden shift so disconcerted her that she stammered： “What—what—” and inwardly groaned： “Oh， Lord！ Now， it’s coming. I wonder if I can butter him down？”
“I shouldn’t have expected either truth or honor or fair dealing from you， knowing you as I do. But foolishly， I trusted you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. At any rate， you look very guilty. As I was riding along Ivy Street a white ago， on my way to call on you， who should hail me from behind a hedge but Mrs. Ashley Wilkes！ Of course， I stopped and chatted with her.”
“Indeed？”
“Yes， we had an enjoyable talk. She told me she had always wanted to let me know how brave she thought I was to have struck a blow for the Confederacy， even at the eleventh hour.”
“Oh， fiddle-dee-dee！ Melly’s a fool. She might have died that night because you acted so heroic.”
“I imagine she would have thought her life given in a good cause. And when I asked her what she was doing in Atlanta she looked quite surprised at my ignorance and told me that they were living here now and that you had been kind enough to make Mr. Wilkes a partner in your mill.”
“Well， what of it？” questioned Scarlett， shortly.
“When I lent you the money to buy that mill I made one stipulation， to which you agreed， and that was that it should not go to the support of Ashley Wilkes.”
“You are being very offensive. I’ve paid you back your money and I own the mill and what I do with it is my own business.”
“Would you mind telling me how you made the money to pay back my loan？”
“I made it selling lumber， of course.”
“You made it with the money I lent you to give you your start. That’s what you mean. My money is being used to support Ashley. You are a woman quite without honor and if you hadn’t repaid my loan， I’d take great pleasure in calling it in now and selling you out at public auction if you couldn’t pay.”
He spoke lightly but there was anger flickering in his eyes.
Scarlett hastily carried the warfare into the enemy’s territory.
“Why do you hate Ashley so much？ I believe you’re jealous of him.”
After she had spoken she could have bitten her tongue， for he threw back his head and laughed until she went red with mortification.
“Add conceit to dishonor，” he said. “You’ll never get over being the belle of the County， will you？ You’ll always think you’re the cutest little trick in shoe leather and that every man you meet is expiring for love of you.”
“I don’t either！” she cried hotly. “But I just can’t see why you hate Ashley so much and that’s the only explanation I can think of.”
“Well， think something else， pretty charmer， for that’s the wrong explanation. And as for hating Ashley— I don’t hate him any more than I like him. In fact， my only emotion toward him and his kind is pity.”
“Pity？”
“Yes， and a little contempt. Now， swell up like a gobbler and tell me that he is worth a thousand blackguards like me and that I shouldn’t dare to be so presumptuous as to feel either pity or contempt for him. And when you have finished swelling， I’ll tell you what I mean， if you’re interested.”
“Well， I’m not.”
“I shall tell you， just the same， for I can’t bear for you to go on nursing your pleasant delusion of my jealousy. I pity him because he ought to be dead and he isn’t. And I have a contempt for him because he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that his world is gone.”
There was something familiar in the idea he expressed. She had a confused memory of having beard similar words but she could not remember when and where. She did not think very hard about it for her anger was hot.
“If you had your way all the decent men in the South would be dead！”