“Yas’m， an’ wo’ only one petticoat an’ it wrang out wid water ter mek it stick an’ show de shape of her laigs， but dat ain’ sayin’ you is gwine do sumpin’ lak dat！ Times wuz scan’lous w’en Ole Miss wuz young but times changes， dey do an’—”
“Name of God！” cried Scarlett， losing her temper and throwing back the covers. “You can go straight back to Tara！”
“You kain sen’ me ter Tara ness Ah wants ter go. Ah is free，” said Mammy heatedly. “An’ Ah is gwine ter stay right hyah. Git back in dat baid. Does you want ter ketch pneumony jes’ now？ Put down dem stays！ Put dem down， honey. Now， Miss Scarlett， you ain’ gwine nowhars in dis wedder. Lawd God！ But you sho look lak yo’ pa！ Git back in baid—Ah kain go buyin’ no paint！ Ah die of shame， eve’ybody knowin ‘it wud fer mah chile！ Miss Scarlett， you is so sweet an’ pretty lookin’ you doan need no paint. Honey， doan nobody but bad womens use dat stuff.”
“Well， they get results， don’t they？”
“Jesus， hear her！ Lamb， doan say bad things lak dat！ Put down dem wet stockin’s， honey. Ah kain have you buy dat stuff yo’seff. Miss Ellen would hant me. Git back in baid. Ah’ll go. Maybe Ah fine me a sto’ what dey doan know us.”
That night at Mrs. Elsing’s， when Fanny had been duly married and old Levi and the other musicians were tuning up for the dance， Scarlett looked about her with gladness. It was so exciting to be actually at a party again. She was pleased also with the warm reception she had received. When she entered the house on Frank’s arm， everyone had rushed to her with cries of pleasure and welcome， kissed her， shaken her hand， told her they had missed her dreadfully and that she must never go back to Tara. The men seemed gallantly to have forgotten she had tried her best to break their hearts in other days and the girls that she had done everything in her power to entice their beaux away from them. Even Mrs. Merriwether， Mrs. Whiting， Mrs. Meade and the other dowagers who had been so cool to her during the last days of the war， forgot her flighty conduct and their disapproval of it and recalled only that she had suffered in their common defeat and that she was Pitty’s niece and Charles’ widow. They kissed her and spoke gently with tears in their eyes of her dear mother’s passing and asked at length about her father and her sisters. Everyone asked about Melanie and Ashley， demanding the reason why they， too， had not come back to Atlanta.
In spite of her pleasure at the welcome， Scarlett felt a slight uneasiness which she tried to conceal， an uneasiness about the appearance of her velvet dress. It was still damp to the knees and still spotted about the hem， despite the frantic efforts of Mammy and Cookie with a steaming kettle， a clean hair brush and frantic wavings in front of an open fire. Scarlett was afraid someone would notice her bedraggled state and realize that this was her only nice dress. She was a little cheered by the fact that many of the dresses of the other guests looked far worse than hers. They were so old and had such carefully mended and pressed looks. At least， her dress was whole and new， damp though it was—in fact， the only new dress at the gathering with the exception of Fanny’s white-satin wedding gown.
Remembering what Aunt Pitty had told her about the Elsing finances， she wondered where the money for the satin dress had been obtained and for the refreshments， and decorations and musicians too. It must have cost a pretty penny. Borrowed money probably or else the whole Elsing clan had contributed to give Fanny this expensive wedding. Such a wedding in these hard times seemed to Scarlett an extravagance on a par with the tombstones of the Tarleton boys and she felt the same irritation and lack of sympathy she had felt as she stood in the Tarleton burying ground. The days when money could be thrown away carelessly had passed. Why did these people persist in making the gestures of the old days when the old days were gone？
But she shrugged off her momentary annoyance. It wasn’t her money and she didn’t want her evening’s pleasure spoiled by irritation at other people’s foolishness.
She discovered she knew the groom quite well， for he was Tommy Wellburn from Sparta and she had nursed him in 1863 when he had a wound in his shoulder. He had been a handsome young six-footer then and had given up his medical studies to go in the cavalry. Now he looked like a little old man， so bent was he by the wound in his hip. He walked with some difficulty and， as Aunt Pitty had remarked， spraddled in a very vulgar way. But he seemed totally unaware of his appearance， or unconcerned about it， and had the manner of one who asks no odds from any man. He had given up all hope of continuing his medical studies and was now a contractor， working a labor crew of Irishmen who were building the new hotel. Scarlett wondered how he managed so onerous a job in his condition but asked no questions， realizing wryly that almost anything was possible when necessity drove.
Tommy and Hugh Elsing and the little monkey-like René Picard stood talking with her while the chairs and furniture were pushed back to the wall in preparation for the dancing. Hugh had not changed since Scarlett last saw him in 1862. He was still the thin sensitive boy with the same lock of pale brown hair hanging over his forehead and the same delicate useless-looking hands she remembered so well. But René had changed since that furlough when he married Maybelle Merriwether. He still had the Gallic twinkle in his black eyes and the Creole zest for living but， for all his easy laughter， there was something hard about his face which had not been there in the early days of the war. And the air of supercilious elegance which had clung about him in his striking Zouave uniform was completely gone.
