At first the other dealers had laughed at her， laughed with good-natured contempt at the very idea of a woman in business. But now they did not laugh. They swore silently as they saw her ride by. The fact that she was a woman frequently worked in her favor， for she could upon occasion look so helpless and appealing that she melted hearts. With no difficulty whatever she could mutely convey the impression of a brave but timid lady， forced by brutal circumstance into a distasteful position， a helpless little lady who would probably starve if customers didn’t buy her lumber. But when ladylike airs failed to get results she was coldly businesslike and willingly undersold her competitors at a loss to herself if it would bring her a new customer. She was not above selling a poor grade of lumber for the price of good lumber if she thought she would not be detected， and she had no scruples about blackguarding the other lumber dealers. With every appearance of reluctance at disclosing the unpleasant truth， she would sigh and tell prospective customers that her competitors’ lumber was far too high in price， rotten， full of knot holes and in general of deplorably poor quality.
The first time Scarlett lied in this fashion she felt disconcerted and guilty—disconcerted because the lie sprang so easily and naturally to her lips， guilty because the thought flashed into her mind： What would Mother say？
There was no doubt what Ellen would say to a daughter who told lies and engaged in sharp practices. She would be stunned and incredulous and would speak gentle words that stung despite their gentleness， would talk of honor and honesty and truth and duty to one’s neighbor. Momentarily， Scarlett cringed as she pictured the look on her mother’s face. And then the picture faded， blotted out by an impulse， hard， unscrupulous and greedy， which had been born in the lean days at Tara and was now strengthened by the present uncertainty of life. So she passed this milestone as she had passed others before it—with a sigh that she was not as Ellen would like her to be， a shrug and the repetition of her unfailing charm： “I’ll think of all this later.”
But she never again thought of Ellen in connection with her business practices， never again regretted any means she used to take trade away from other lumber dealers. She knew she was perfectly safe in lying about them. Southern chivalry protected her. A Southern lady could lie about a gentleman but a Southern gentleman could not lie about a lady or， worse still， call the lady a liar. Other lumbermen could only fume inwardly and state heatedly， in the bosoms of their families， that they wished to God Mrs. Kennedy was a man for just about five minutes.
One poor white who operated a mill on the Decatur road did try to fight Scarlett with her own weapons， saying openly that she was a liar and a swindler. But it hurt him rather than helped， for everyone was appalled that even a poor white should say such shocking things about a lady of good family， even when the lady was conducting herself in such an unwomanly way. Scarlett bore his remarks with silent dignity and， as time went by， she turned all her attention to him and his customers. She undersold him so relentlessly and delivered， with secret groans， such an excellent quality of lumber to prove her probity that he was soon bankrupt. Then， to Frank’s horror， she triumphantly bought his mill at her own price.
Once in her possession there arose the perplexing problem of finding a trustworthy man to put in charge of it. She did not want another man like Mr. Johnson. She knew that despite all her watchfulness he was still selling her lumber behind her back， but she thought it would be easy to find the right sort of man. Wasn’t everybody as poor as Job’s turkey， and weren’t the streets full of men， some of them formerly rich， who were without work？ The day never went by that Frank did not give money to some hungry ex-soldier or that Pitty and Cookie did not wrap up food for gaunt beggars.
But Scarlett， for some reason she could not understand， did not want any of these. “I don’t want men who haven’t found something to do after a year，” she thought. “If they haven’t adjusted to peace yet， they couldn’t adjust to me. And they all look so hangdog and licked. I don’t want a man who’s licked. I want somebody who’s smart and energetic like Renny or Tommy Wellburn or Kells Whiting or one of the Simmons boys or—or any of that tribe. They haven’t got that I-don’t-care-about-anything look the soldiers had right after the surrender. They look like they cared a heap about a heap of things.”
But to her surprise the Simmons boys， who had started a brick kiln， and Kells Whiting， who was selling a preparation made up in his mother’s kitchen， that was guaranteed to straighten the lankiest negro hair in six applications， smiled politely， thanked her and refused. It was the same with the dozen others she approached. In desperation she raised the wage she was offering but she was still refused. One of Mrs. Merriwether’s nephews observed impertinently that while he didn’t especially enjoy driving a dray， it was his own dray and he would rather get somewhere under his own steam than Scarlett’s.
One afternoon， Scarlett pulled up her buggy beside René Picard’s pie wagon and hailed René and the crippled Tommy Wellburn， who was catching a ride home with his friend.
“Look here， Renny， why don’t you come and work for me？ Managing a mill is a sight more respectable than driving a pie wagon. I’d think， you’d be ashamed.”
“Me， I am dead to shame，” grinned René. “Who would be respectable？ All of my days I was respectable until ze war set me free lak ze darkies. Nevaire again must I be deegneefied and full of ennui. Free lak ze bird！ I lak my pie wagon. I lak my mule. I lak ze dear Yankees who so kindly buy ze pie of Madame Belle Mère. No， my Scarlett， I must be ze King of ze Pies. Eet ees my destiny！ Lak Napoleon， I follow my star.” He flourished his whip dramatically.