“I’m not a millionaire， Miss Scarlett， and considering the money I used to have， what I’ve got now sounds small. But I made a thousand dollars this year. Of course， five hundred of it went to paying for new stock and repairing the store and paying the rent. But I’ve made five hundred clear and as things are certainly picking up， I ought to clear two thousand next year. I can sure use it， too， for you see， I’ve got another iron in the fire.”
Interest had sprung up sharply in her at the talk of money. She veiled her eyes with thick bristly lashes and moved a little closer to him.
“What does that mean， Mr. Kennedy？”
He laughed and slapped the reins against the horse’s back.
“I guess I’m boring you， talking about business， Miss Scarlett. A pretty little woman like you doesn’t need to know anything about business.”
The old fool.
“Oh， I know I’m a goose about business but I’m so interested！ Please tell me all about it and you can explain what I don’t understand.”
“Well， my other iron is a sawmill.”
“A what？”
“A mill to cut up lumber and plane it. I haven’t bought it yet but I’m going to. There’s a man named Johnson who has one， way out Peachtree road， and he’s anxious to sell it. He needs some cash right away， so he wants to sell and stay and run it for me at a weekly wage. It’s one of the few mills in this section， Miss Scarlett. The Yankees destroyed most of them. And anyone who owns a sawmill owns a gold mine， for nowadays you can ask your own price for lumber. The Yankees burned so many houses here and there aren’t enough for people to live in and it looks like folks have gone crazy about rebuilding. They can’t get enough lumber and they can’t get it fast enough. People are just pouring into Atlanta now， all the folks from the country districts who can’t make a go of farming without darkies and the Yankees and Carpetbaggers who are swarming in trying to pick our bones a little barer than they already are. I tell you Atlanta’s going to be a big town soon. They’ve got to have lumber for their houses， so I’m going to buy this mill just as soon as—well， as soon as some of the bills owing me are paid. By this time next year， I ought to be breathing easier about money. I—I guess you know why I’m so anxious to make money quickly， don’t you？”
He blushed and cackled again. He’s thinking of Suellen， Scarlett thought in disgust.
For a moment she considered asking him to lend her three hundred dollars， but wearily she rejected the idea. He would be embarrassed； he would stammer， he would offer excuses， but he wouldn’t lend it to her. He had worked hard for it， so he could marry Suellen in the spring and if he parted with it， his wedding would be postponed indefinitely. Even if she worked on his sympathies and his duty toward his future family and gained his promise of a loan， she knew Suellen would never permit it. Suellen was getting more and more worried over the fact that she was practically an old maid and she would move heaven and earth to prevent anything from delaying her marriage.
What was there in that whining complaining girl to make this old fool so anxious to give her a soft nest？ Suellen didn’t deserve a loving husband and the profits of store and a sawmill. The minute Sue got her hands on a little money she’d give herself unendurable airs and never contribute one cent toward the upkeep of Tara. Not Suellen！ She’d think herself well out of it and not care if Tara went for taxes or burned to the ground， so long as she had pretty clothes and a “Mrs.” in front of her name.
As Scarlett thought of Suellen’s secure future and the precarious one of herself and Tara， anger flamed in her at the unfairness of life. Hastily she looked out of the buggy into the muddy street， lest Frank should see her expression. She was going to lose everything she had， while Sue— Suddenly a determination was born in her.
Suellen should not have Frank and his store and his mill！
Suellen didn’t deserve them. She was going to have them herself. She thought of Tara and remembered Jonas Wilkerson， venomous as a rattler， at the foot of the front steps， and she grasped at the last straw floating above the shipwreck of her life. Rhett had failed her but the Lord had provided Frank.
But can I get him？ Her fingers clenched as she looked unseeingly into the rain. Can I make him forget Sue and propose to me real quick？ If I could make Rhett almost propose， I know I could get Frank！ Her eyes went over him， her lids flickering. Certainly， he’s no beauty， she thought coolly， and he’s got very bad teeth and his breath smells bad and he’s old enough to be my father. Moreover， he’s nervous and timid and well meaning， and I don’t know of any more damning qualities a man can have. But at least， he’s a gentleman and I believe I could stand living with him better than with Rhett. Certainly I could manage him easier. At any rate， beggars can’t be choosers.
That he was Suellen’s fiancé caused her no qualm of conscience. After the complete moral collapse which had sent her to Atlanta and to Rhett， the appropriation of her sister’s betrothed seemed a minor affair and one not to be bothered with at this time.
With the rousing of fresh hope， her spine stiffened and she forgot that her feet were wet and cold. She looked at Frank so steadily， her eyes narrowing， that he became somewhat alarmed and she dropped her gaze swiftly， remembering Rhett’s words： “I’ve seen eyes like yours above a dueling pistol. ... They evoke no ardor in the male breast.”
“What’s the matter， Miss Scarlett？ You got a chill？”
“Yes，” she answered helplessly. “Would you mind—” She hesitated timidly. “Would you mind if I put my hand in your coat pocket？ It’s so cold and my muff is soaked through.”
“Why—why—of course not！ And you haven’t any gloves！ My， my， what a brute I’ve been idling along like this， talking my head off when you must be freezing and wanting to get to a fire. Giddap， Sally！ By the way， Miss Scarlett， I’ve been so busy talking about myself I haven’t even asked you what you were doing in this section in this weather？”