Most women don't come that high."
She blushed to her hair line and her humiliation was complete.
"Why are you doing this?
Why not let the farm go and live at Miss Pittypat's.
You own half that house."
"Name of God!" she cried.
"Are you a fool?
I can't let Tara go.
It's home.
I won't let it go.
Not while I've got breath left in me!"
"The Irish," said he, lowering his chair back to level and removing his hands from his pockets, "are the damnedest race.
They put so much emphasis on so many wrong things.
Land, for instance.
And every bit of earth is just like every other bit.
Now, let me get this straight, Scarlett.
You are coming to me with a business proposition.
I'll give you three hundred dollars and you'll become my mistress."
"Yes."
Now that the repulsive word had been said, she felt somehow easier and hope awoke in her again.
He had said "I'll give you."
There was a diabolic gleam in his eyes as if something amused him greatly.
"And yet, when I had the effrontery to make you this same proposition, you turned me out of the house.
And also you called me a number of very hard names and mentioned in passing that you didn't want a 'passel of brats.'
No, my dear, I'm not rubbing it in.
I'm only wondering at the peculiarities of your mind.
You wouldn't do it for your own pleasure but you will to keep the wolf away from the door.
It proves my point that all virtue is merely a matter of prices."
"Oh, Rhett, how you run on!
If you want to insult me, go on and do it but give me the money."
She was breathing easier now.
Being what he was, Rhett would naturally want to torment and insult her as much as possible to pay her back for past slights and for her recent attempted trickery.
Well, she could stand it.
She could stand anything.
Tara was worth it all.
For a brief moment it was mid-summer and the afternoon skies were blue and she lay drowsily in the thick clover of Tara's lawn, looking up at the billowing cloud castles, the fragrance of white blossoms in her nose and the pleasant busy humming of bees in her ears.
Afternoon and hush and the far-off sound of the wagons coming in from the spiraling red fields.
Worth it all, worth more.
Her head went up.
"Are you going to give me the money?"
He looked as if he were enjoying himself and when he spoke there was suave brutality in his voice.
"No, I'm not," he said.
For a moment her mind could not adjust itself to his words.
"I couldn't give it to you, even if I wanted to.
I haven't a cent on me.
Not a dollar in Atlanta.
I have some money, yes, but not here.
And I'm not saying where it is or how much.
But if I tried to draw a draft on it, the Yankees would be on me like a duck on a June bug and then neither of us would get it.
What do you think of that?"