Eight-year-old Scarlett O'Hara sat morosely on her bed, looking as petulant as an embittered old maid. For, you see, handsome Brent Tarleton had been playing marbles with her and Melanie Hamilton, and Brent had let Melanie win. When Scarlett asked why (this was out of Melly's hearing), Brent had grinned and delivered the first insult—or she thought it an insult—that Scarlett had ever had in her long, experienced eight years.
"I let the pretty girls win,"
Scarlett had slapped him and shouted, "why, you awful, ungentlemanly..."
Then she had raced away from Tarleton Oaks to Tara, not caring, for once, that the red dust of Georgia's clay roads was sifting onto the hem of her favorite play dress. It was a pretty, pale pink dress. Scarlett's nurse, Mammy, had only conceded to let Scarlett wear it in her play because the girl was such a prim, proper little thing who hated dust of any kind. Until now, that was. Scarlett was fuming. She had been simply insulted.
Then Scarlett had stomped upstairs, and for good measure, slammed the door.
Scarlett slowly came back to the present. She heard Mammy's slow, heavy tread on the staircase and froze. Mammy was coming up to her room. Now Mammy would fuss and ask questions, and as much as Scarlett loved Mammy, she didn't want to talk to her right now. Scarlett didn't have any choice, however.
"Miss Scarlett?" Mammy's authoritative voice was now right outside the door, and the portly woman made her way into the bedroom. Scarlett scowled at the floor, not looking up.
"Miss Scarlett!" Mammy called in a dulcet but not unkind voice. "Just what do yo' think yo' was doin', stompin' and slammin'. And look at yo' dress!"
"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee!" Scarlett scoffed, but she looked guiltily at the hem of her pretty pink dress. The hem was now a strange orange color.
"Now yo' just tell me what yo' so upset about," Mammy commanded. "And look at me when I'm talkin'!"
Scarlett looked up sullenly, but she recanted the whole story, sure that when Mammy heard that, she'd tell Scarlett's mother, and then Scarlett's mother would tell Brent's mother, and then Brent's mother would punish Brent. However, when Scarlett finished her story, Mammy laughed.
"Oh, chile', is that all?" Mammy grinned.
"Mammy!" Scarlett said sourly. "Brent Tarleton let plain ol' Melly win—"
"Now, don't yo' go insultin' Miss Melanie," Mammy interrupted severely.
"—and then he said Melanie is prettier!"
Mammy grinned. "He's just a little boy. Miss Scarlett, hon', yo' got plenty of years to get the attention of a gentleman. They're just little boys now, and yo' just a little girl. Yo' need to play along and laugh. Yo' plenty of growing up soon enough."
Scarlett hung her head in remorse. Remorse was something that Scarlett rarely had, but as she looked over the facts, she had to agree that she was being very silly. Brent had wanted her to get mad, and now she had acted like a little lady shouldn't. What if Mother found out? Mother would be so disappointed!
"You…won't tell Mother, will you, Mammy?" Scarlett asked, her dark green eyes full of tears.
"No, chile, not unless she asks," Mammy said, and then she winked. "Yo' Mother did something like that when she was yo' age. There was a boy, Adam Walters, that she declared she'd marry someday. Then one day, Adam said he'd marry yo' mother 'when they grew up'—she was so thrilled. But then he finished, '—if Grace Pryor doesn't want me'. Yo' mother, she was so upset and sullen that I thought she'd catch on fire, if it was possible."
"Really?" Scarlett asked with big eyes. "Mother?"
"Yes'um," Mammy said. "Now, don't yo' go tellin' yo' mother that I told yo'."
"I won't," said Scarlett, and her green eyes sparkled with mischievous glee.