When she thought of the dull times of the past year， with the days going by one very much like another， life seemed to have quickened to an incredible speed. Every day dawned as an exciting adventure， a day in which she would meet new men who would ask to call on her， tell her how pretty she was， and how it was a privilege to fight and， perhaps， to die for her. She could and did love Ashley with the last breath in her body， but that did not prevent her from inveigling other men into asking to marry her.
The ever-present war in the background lent a pleasant informality to social relations， an informality which older people viewed with alarm. Mothers found strange men calling on their daughters， men who came without letters of introduction and whose antecedents were unknown. To their horror， mothers found their daughters holding hands with these men. Mrs. Merriwether， who had never kissed her husband until after the wedding ceremony， could scarcely believe her eyes when she caught Maybelle kissing the little Zouave， René Picard， and her consternation was even greater when Maybelle refused to be ashamed. Even the fact that René immediately asked for her hand did not improve matters. Mrs. Merriwether felt that the South was heading for a complete moral collapse and frequently said so. Other mothers concurred heartily with her and blamed it on the war.
But men who expected to die within a week or a month could not wait a year before they begged to call a girl by her first name， with “Miss，” of course， preceding it. Nor would they go through the formal and protracted courtships which good manners had prescribed before the war. They were likely to propose in three or four months. And girls who knew very well that a lady always refused a gentleman the first three times he proposed rushed headlong to accept the first time.
This informality made the war a lot of fun for Scarlett. Except for the messy business of nursing and the bore of bandage rolling， she did not care if the war lasted forever. In fact， she could endure the hospital with equanimity now because it was a perfect happy hunting ground. The helpless wounded succumbed to her charms without a struggle. Renew their bandages， wash their faces， pat up their pillows and fan them， and they fell in love. Oh， it was Heaven after the last dreary year！
Scarlett was back again where she had been before she married Charles and it was as if she had never married him， never felt the shock of his death， never borne Wade. War and marriage and childbirth had passed over her without touching any deep chord within her and she was unchanged. She had a child but he was cared for so well by the others in the red brick house she could almost forget him. In her mind and heart， she was Scarlett O’Hara again， the belle of the County. Her thoughts and activities were the same as they had been in the old days， but the field of her activities had widened immensely. Careless of the disapproval of Aunt Pitty’s friends， she behaved as she had behaved before her marriage， went to parties， danced， went riding with soldiers， flirted， did everything she had done as a girl， except stop wearing mourning. This she knew would be a straw that would break the backs of Pittypat and Melanie. She was as charming a widow as she had been a girl， pleasant when she had her own way， obliging as long as it did not discommode her， vain of her looks and her popularity.
She was happy now where a few weeks before she had been miserable， happy with her beaux and their reassurances of her charm， as happy as she could be with Ashley married to Melanie and in danger. But somehow it was easier to bear the thought of Ashley belonging to some one else when he was far away. With the hundreds of miles stretching between Atlanta and Virginia， he sometimes seemed as much hers as Melanie’s.
So the autumn months of 1862 went swiftly by with nursing， dancing， driving and bandage rolling taking up all the time she did not spend on brief visits to Tara. These visits were disappointing， for she had little opportunity for the long quiet talks with her mother to which she looked forward while in Atlanta， no time to sit by Ellen while she sewed， smelling the faint fragrance of lemon verbena sachet as her skirts rustled， feeling her soft hands on her cheek in a gentle caress.
Ellen was thin and preoccupied now and on her feet from morning until long after the plantation was asleep. The demands of the Confederate commissary were growing heavier by the month， and hers was the task of making Tara produce. Even Gerald was busy， for the first time in many years， for he could get no overseer to take Jonas Wilkerson’s place and he was riding his own acres. With Ellen too busy for more than a goodnight kiss and Gerald in the fields all day， Scarlett found Tara boring. Even her sisters were taken up with their own concerns. Suellen had now come to an “understanding” with Frank Kennedy and sang “When This Cruel War Is Over” with an arch meaning Scarlett found well-nigh unendurable， and Carreen was too wrapped up in dreams of Brent Tarleton to be interesting company.
Though Scarlett always went home to Tara with a happy heart， she was never sorry when the inevitable letters came from Pitty and Melanie， begging her to return. Ellen always sighed at these times， saddened by the thought of her oldest daughter and her only grandchild leaving her.
“But I mustn’t be selfish and keep you here when you are needed to nurse in Atlanta，” she said. “Only—only， my darling， it seems that I never get the time to talk to you and to feel that you are my own little girl again before you are gone from me.”
“I’m always your little girl，” Scarlett would say and bury her head upon Ellen’s breast， her guilt rising up to accuse her. She did not tell her mother that it was the dancing and the beaux which drew her back to Atlanta and not the service of the Confederacy. There were many things she kept from her mother these days. But， most of all， she kept secret the fact that Rhett Butler called frequently at Aunt Pittypat’s house.