Flappers and Philosophers. F. Scott Fitzgerald

upon them three days of afternoons. When the sun cleared the port-hole of Ardita's cabin an hour after dawn she rose cheerily, donned her bathing-suit, and went up on deck. The negroes would leave their work when they saw her, and crowd, chuckling and chattering, to the rail as she floated, an agile minnow, on and under the surface of the clear water. Again in the cool of the afternoon she would swim—and loll and smoke with Carlyle upon the cliff; or else they would lie on their sides in the sands of the southern beach, talking little, but watching the day fade colorfully and tragically into the infinite langour of a tropical evening.

      And with the long, sunny hours Ardita's idea of the episode as incidental, madcap, a sprig of romance in a desert of reality, gradually left her. She dreaded the time when he would strike off southward; she dreaded all the eventualities that presented themselves to her; thoughts were suddenly troublesome and decisions odious. Had prayers found place in the pagan rituals of her soul she would have asked of life only to be unmolested for a while, lazily acquiescent to the ready, naïf flow of Carlyle's ideas, his vivid boyish imagination, and the vein of monomania that seemed to run crosswise through his temperament and colored his every action.

      But this is not a story of two on an island, nor concerned primarily with love bred of isolation. It is merely the presentation of two personalities, and its idyllic setting among the palms of the Gulf Stream is quite incidental. Most of us are content to exist and breed and fight for the right to do both, and the dominant idea, the foredoomed attest to control one's destiny, is reserved for the fortunate or unfortunate few. To me the interesting thing about Ardita is the courage that will tarnish with her beauty and youth.

      "Take me with you," she said late one night as they sat lazily in the grass under the shadowy spreading palms. The negroes had brought ashore their musical instruments, and the sound of weird ragtime was drifting softly over on the warm breath of the night. "I'd love to reappear in ten years, as a fabulously wealthy high-caste Indian lady," she continued.

      Carlyle looked at her quickly.

      "You can, you know."

      She laughed.

      "Is it a proposal of marriage? Extra! Ardita Farnam becomes pirate's bride. Society girl kidnapped by ragtime bank robber."

      "It wasn't a bank."

      "What was it? Why won't you tell me?"

      "I don't want to break down your illusions."

      "My dear man, I have no illusions about you."

      "I mean your illusions about yourself."

      She looked up in surprise.

      "About myself! What on earth have I got to do with whatever stray felonies you've committed?"

      "That remains to be seen."

      She reached over and patted his hand.

      "Dear Mr. Curtis Carlyle," she said softly, "are you in love with me?"

      "As if it mattered."

      "But it does—because I think I'm in love with you."

      He looked at her ironically.

      "Thus swelling your January total to half a dozen," he suggested. "Suppose I call your bluff and ask you to come to India with me?"

      "Shall I?"

      He shrugged his shoulders.

      "We can get married in Callao."

      "What sort of life can you offer me? I don't mean that unkindly, but seriously; what would become of me if the people who want that twenty-thousand-dollar reward ever catch up with you?"

      "I thought you weren't afraid."

      "I never am—but I won't throw my life away just to show one man I'm not."

      "I wish you'd been poor. Just a little poor girl dreaming over a fence in a warm cow country."

      "Wouldn't it have been nice?"

      "I'd have enjoyed astonishing you—watching your eyes open on things. If you only wanted things! Don't you see?"

      "I know—like girls who stare into the windows of jewelry-stores."

      "Yes—and want the big oblong watch that's platinum and has diamonds all round the edge. Only you'd decide it was too expensive and choose one of white gold for a hundred dollar. Then I'd say: 'Expensive? I should say not!' And we'd go into the store and pretty soon the platinum one would be gleaming on your wrist."

      "That sounds so nice and vulgar—and fun, doesn't it?" murmured Ardita.

      "Doesn't it? Can't you see us travelling round and spending money right and left, and being worshipped by bell-boys and waiters? Oh, blessed are the simple rich for they inherit the earth!"

      "I honestly wish we were that way."

      "I love you, Ardita," he said gently.

      Her face lost its childish look for moment and became oddly grave.

      "I love to be with you," she said, "more than with any man I've ever met. And I like your looks and your dark old hair, and the way you go over the side of the rail when we come ashore. In fact, Curtis Carlyle, I like all the things you do when you're perfectly natural. I think you've got nerve and you know how I feel about that. Sometimes when you're around I've been tempted to kiss you suddenly and tell you that you were just an idealistic boy with a lot of caste nonsense in his head. Perhaps if I were just a little bit older and a little more bored I'd go with you. As it is, I think I'll go back and marry—that other man."

      Over across the silver lake the figures of the negroes writhed and squirmed in the moonlight like acrobats who, having been too long inactive, must go through their tacks from sheer surplus energy. In single file they marched, weaving in concentric circles, now with their heads thrown back, now bent over their instruments like piping fauns. And from trombone and saxaphone ceaselessly whined a blended melody, sometimes riotous and jubilant, sometimes haunting and plaintive as a death-dance from the Congo's heart.

      "Let's dance," cried Ardita. "I can't sit still with that perfect jazz going on."

      Taking her hand he led her out into a broad stretch of hard sandy soil that the moon flooded with great splendor. They floated out like drifting moths under the rich hazy light, and as the fantastic symphony wept and exulted and wavered and despaired Ardita's last sense of reality dropped away, and she abandoned her imagination to the dreamy summer scents of tropical flowers and the infinite starry spaces overhead, feeling that if she opened her eyes it would be to find herself dancing with a ghost in a land created by her own fancy.

      "This is what I should call an exclusive private dance," he whispered.

      "I feel quite mad—but delightfully mad!"

      "We're enchanted. The shades of unnumbered generations of cannibals are watching us from high up on the side of the cliff there."

      "And I'll bet the cannibal women are saying that we dance too close, and that it was immodest of me to come without my nose-ring."

      They both laughed softly—and then their laughter died as over across the lake they heard the trombones stop in the middle of a bar, and the saxaphones give a startled moan and fade out.

      "What's the matter?" called Carlyle.

      After a moment's silence they made out the dark figure of a man rounding the silver lake at a run. As he came closer they saw it was Babe in a state of unusual excitement. He drew up before them and gasped out his news in a breath.

      "Ship stan'in' off sho' 'bout half a mile suh. Mose, he uz on watch, he say look's if she's done ancho'd."

      "A ship—what kind of a ship?" demanded Carlyle anxiously.

      Dismay was in his voice, and Ardita's heart gave a sudden wrench as she saw his whole face suddenly droop.

      "He say he don't know, suh."

      "Are they landing