“No？ And yet you are a part of it， like I was， and I’ll wager you don’t like it any more than I did. Well， why am I the black sheep of the Butler family？ For this reason and no other—I didn’t conform to Charleston and I couldn’t. And Charleston is the South， only intensified. I wonder if you realize yet what a bore it is？ So many things that one must do because they’ve always been done. So many things， quite harmless， that one must not do for the same reason. So many things that annoyed me by their senselessness. Not marrying the young lady， of whom you have probably heard， was merely the last straw. Why should I marry a boring fool， simply because an accident prevented me from getting her home before dark？ And why permit her wild-eyed brother to shoot and kill me， when I could shoot straighter？ If I had been a gentleman， of course， I would have let him kill me and that would have wiped the blot from the Butler escutcheon. But—I like to live. And so I’ve lived and I’ve had a good time. ... When I think of my brother， living among the sacred cows of Charleston， and most reverent toward them， and remember his stodgy wife and his Saint Cecilia Balls and his everlasting rice fields—then I know the compensation for breaking with the system. Scarlett， our Southern way of living is as antiquated as the feudal system of the Middle Ages. The wonder is that it’s lasted as long as it has. It had to go and it’s going now. And yet you expect me to listen to orators like Dr. Meade who tell me our Cause is just and holy？ And get so excited by the roll of drums that I’ll grab a musket and rush off to Virginia to shed my blood for Marse Robert？ What kind of a fool do you think I am？ Kissing the rod that chastised me is not in my line. The South and I are even now. The South threw me out to starve once. I haven’t starved， and I am making enough money out of the South’s death throes to compensate me for my lost birthright.”
“I think you are vile and mercenary，” said Scarlett， but her remark was automatic. Most of what he was saying went over her head， as did any conversation that was not personal. But part of it made sense. There were such a lot of foolish things about life among nice people. Having to pretend that her heart was in the grave when it wasn’t. And how shocked everybody had been when she danced at the bazaar. And the infuriating way people lifted their eyebrows every time she did or said anything the least bit different from what every other young woman did and said. But still， she was jarred at hearing him attack the very traditions that irked her most. She had lived too long among people who dissembled politely not to feel disturbed at hearing her own thoughts put into words.
“Mercenary？ No， I’m only farsighted. Though perhaps that is merely a synonym for mercenary. At least， people who were not as farsighted as I will call it that. Any loyal Confederate who had a thousand dollars in cash in 1861 could have done what I did， but how few were mercenary enough to take advantage of their opportunities！ As for instance， right after Fort Sumter fell and before the blockade was established， I bought up several thousand bales of cotton at dirt-cheap prices and ran them to England. They are still there in warehouses in Liverpool. I’ve never sold them. I’m holding them until the English mills have to have cotton and will give me any price I ask. I wouldn’t be surprised if I got a dollar a pound.”
“You’ll get a dollar a pound when elephants roost in trees！”
“I’ll believe I’ll get it. Cotton is at seventy-two cents a pound already. I’m going to be a rich man when this war is over， Scarlett， because I was farsighted—pardon me， mercenary. I told you once before that there were two times for making big money， one in the upbuilding of a country and the other in its destruction. Slow money on the upbuilding， fast money in the crack-up. Remember my words. Perhaps they may be of use to you some day.”
“I do appreciate good advice so much，” said Scarlett， with all the sarcasm she could muster. “But I don’t need your advice. Do you think Pa is a pauper？ He’s got all the money I’ll ever need and then I have Charles’ property besides.”
“I imagine the French aristocrats thought practically the same thing until the very moment when they climbed into the tumbrils.”
Frequently Rhett pointed out to Scarlett the inconsistency of her wearing black mourning clothes when she was participating in all social activities. He liked bright colors and Scarlett’s funeral dresses and the crêpe veil that hung from her bonnet to her heels both amused him and offended him. But she clung to her dull black dresses and her veil， knowing that if she changed them for colors without waiting several more years， the town would buzz even more than it was already buzzing. And besides， how would she ever explain to her mother？
Rhett said frankly that the crêpe veil made her look like a crow and the black dresses added ten years to her age. This ungallant statement sent her flying to the mirror to see if she really did look twenty-eight instead of eighteen.
“I should think you’d have more pride than to try to look like Mrs. Merriwether，” he taunted. “And better taste than to wear that veil to advertise a grief I’m sure you never felt. I’ll lay a wager with you. I’ll have that bonnet and veil off your head and a Paris creation on it within two months.”
“Indeed， no， and don’t let’s discuss it any further，” said Scarlett， annoyed by his reference to Charles. Rhett， who was preparing to leave for Wilmington for another trip abroad， departed with a grin on his face.
