“No,” said Rhett clearly, his eyes sweeping the crowd carelessly.
“Mrs. Hamilton.”
“I tell you it is impossible,” said the doctor testily.
“Mrs. Hamilton will not—”
Scarlett heard a voice which, at first, she did not recognize as her own.
“Yes, I will!”
She leaped to her feet, her heart hammering so wildly she feared she could not stand, hammering with the thrill of being the center of attention again, of being the most highly desired girl present and oh, best of all, at the prospect of dancing again.
“Oh, I don’t care! I don’t care what they say!” she whispered, as a sweet madness swept over her.
She tossed her head and sped out of the booth, tapping her heels like castanets, snapping open her black silk fan to its widest.
For a fleeting instant she saw Melanie’s incredulous face, the look on the chaperons’ faces, the petulant girls, the enthusiastic approval of the soldiers.
Then she was on the floor and Rhett Butler was advancing toward her through the aisle of the crowd, that nasty mocking smile on his face.
But she didn’t care—didn’t care if he were Abe Lincoln himself!
She was going to dance again.
She was going to lead the reel.
She swept him a low curtsy and a dazzling smile and he bowed, one hand on his frilled bosom.
Levi, horrified, was quick to cover the situation and bawled:
“Choose yo’ padners fo’ de Ferginny reel!”
And the orchestra crashed into that best of all reel tunes,
“Dixie.”
“How dare you make me so conspicuous, Captain Butler?”
“But, my dear Mrs. Hamilton, you so obviously wanted to be conspicuous!”
“How could you call my name out in front of everybody?”
“You could have refused.”
“But—I owe it to the Cause—I—I couldn’t think of myself when you were offering so much in gold. Stop laughing, everyone is looking at us.”
“They will look at us anyway.
Don’t try to palm off that twaddle about the Cause to me.
You wanted to dance and I gave you the opportunity.
This march is the last figure of the reel, isn’t it?”
“Yes—really, I must stop and sit down now.”
“Why?
Have I stepped on your feet?”
“No—but they’ll talk about me.”
“Do you really care—down in your heart?”
“Well—”
“You aren’t committing any crime, are you?
Why not dance the waltz with me?”
“But if Mother ever—”
“Still tied to mamma’s apronstrings.”
“Oh, you have the nastiest way of making virtues sound so stupid.”
“But virtues are stupid.
Do you care if people talk?”
“No—but—well, let’s don’t talk about it.
Thank goodness the waltz is beginning.
Reels always leave me breathless.”
“Don’t dodge my questions.
Has what other women said ever mattered to you?”
“Oh, if you’re going to pin me down—no!
But a girl is supposed to mind.
Tonight, though, I don’t care.”
“Bravo!