"Did you ever in your novel reading come across the old situation of the disinterested wife falling in love with her own husband?"
"You know I don't read novels," she said and, trying to equal his jesting mood, went on: "Besides, you once said it was the height of bad form for husbands and wives to love each other."
"I once said too God damn many things," he retorted abruptly and rose to his feet.
"Don't swear."
"You'll have to get used to it and learn to swear too. You'll have to get used to all my bad habits. That'll be part of the price of being-- fond of me and getting your pretty paws on my money."
"Well, don't fly off the handle so, because I didn't lie and make you feel conceited. You aren't in love with me, are you? Why should I be in love with you?"
"No, my dear, I'm not in love with you, no more than you are with me, and if I were, you would be the last person I'd ever tell. God help the man who ever really loves you. You'd break his heart, my darling, cruel, destructive
little cat who is so careless and confident she doesn't even trouble to sheathe her claws."
He jerked her to her feet and kissed her again, but this time his lips were different for he seemed not to care if he hurt her-- seemed to want to hurt her, to insult her. His lips slid down to her throat and finally he pressed them against the taffeta over her breast, so hard and so long that his breath burnt to her skin. Her hands struggled up, pushing him away in outraged modesty.
"You mustn't! How dare you!"
"Your heart's going like a rabbit's," he said mockingly. "All too fast for mere fondness I would think, if I were conceited. Smooth your ruffled feathers. You are just putting on these virginal airs. Tell me what I shall bring you from England. A ring? What kind would you like?"
She wavered momentarily between interest in his last words and a feminine desire to prolong the scene with anger and indignation.
"Oh-- a diamond ring -- and Rhett, do buy a great big one."
"So you can flaunt it before your poverty-stricken friends and say 'See what I caught!' Very well, you shall have a big one, one so big that your less-fortunate friends can comfort themselves by whispering that it's really vulgar to wear such large stones."
He abruptly started off across the room and she followed him, bewildered, to the closed doors.
"What is the matter? Where are you going?"
'To my rooms to finish packing."
"Oh, but--"
"But, what?"
"Nothing. I hope you have a nice trip."
"Thank you."
He opened the door and walked into the hall. Scarlett trailed after him, somewhat at a loss, a trifle disappointed as at an unexpected anticlimax. He slipped on his coat and picked up his gloves and hat.
"I'll write you. Let me know if you change your mind."
"Aren't you--"
"Well?" He seemed impatient to be off.
"Aren't you going to kiss me good-by?" she whispered, mindful of the ears of the house.
"Don't you think you've had enough kissing for one evening?" he retorted and grinned down at her. "To think of a modest, well-brought-up young woman-- Well, I told you it would be fun, didn't I?"
"Oh, you are impossible!" she cried in wrath, not caring if Mammy did hear. "And I don't care if you never come back."
She turned and flounced toward the stairs, expecting to feel his warm hand on her arm, stopping her. But he only pulled open the front door and a cold draft swept in.
"But I will come back," he said and went out, leaving her on the bottom step looking at the closed door.