Flappers and Philosophers | Page 7

"No," said Ardita frankly. "I'm all for you. I'd really like to see you
make a get-away."
He laughed.
"You're our Lady Luck. Guess we'll have to keep you with us as a
mascot--for the present anyway."
"You couldn't very well ask me to swim back," she said coolly. "If you
do I'm going to start writing dime novels founded on that interminable
history of your life you gave me last night."
He flushed and stiffened slightly.

"I'm very sorry I bored you."
"Oh, you didn't--until just at the end with some story about how furious
you were because you couldn't dance with the ladies you played music
for."
He rose angrily.
"You have got a darn mean little tongue."
"Excuse me," she said melting into laughter, "but I'm not used to
having men regale me with the story of their life ambitions--especially
if they've lived such deathly platonic lives."
"Why? What do men usually regale you with?"
"Oh, they talk about me," she yawned. "They tell me I'm the spirit of
youth and beauty."
"What do you tell them?"
"Oh, I agree quietly."
"Does every man you meet tell you he loves you?"
Ardita nodded.
"Why shouldn't he? All life is just a progression toward, and then a
recession from, one phrase--'I love you.'"
Carlyle laughed and sat down.
"That's very true. That's--that's not bad. Did you make that up?"
"Yes--or rather I found it out. It doesn't mean anything especially. It's
just clever."
"It's the sort of remark," he said gravely, "that's typical of your class."

"Oh," she interrupted impatiently, "don't start that lecture on aristocracy
again! I distrust people who can be intense at this hour in the morning.
It's a mild form of insanity--a sort of breakfast-food jag. Morning's the
time to sleep, swim, and be careless."
Ten minutes later they had swung round in a wide circle as if to
approach the island from the north.
"There's a trick somewhere," commented Ardita thoughtfully. "He can't
mean just to anchor up against this cliff."
They were heading straight in now toward the solid rock, which must
have been well over a hundred feet tall, and not until they were within
fifty yards of it did Ardita see their objective. Then she clapped her
hands in delight. There was a break in the cliff entirely hidden by a
curious overlapping of rock, and through this break the yacht entered
and very slowly traversed a narrow channel of crystal-clear water
between high gray walls. Then they were riding at anchor in a
miniature world of green and gold, a gilded bay smooth as glass and set
round with tiny palms, the whole resembling the mirror lakes and twig
trees that children set up in sand piles.
"Not so darned bad!" cried Carlyle excitedly.
"I guess that little coon knows his way round this corner of the
Atlantic."
His exuberance was contagious, and Ardita became quite jubilant.
"It's an absolutely sure-fire hiding-place!"
"Lordy, yes! It's the sort of island you read about."
The rowboat was lowered into the golden lake and they pulled to shore.
"Come on," said Carlyle as they landed in the slushy sand, "we'll go
exploring."
The fringe of palms was in turn ringed in by a round mile of flat, sandy

country. They followed it south and brushing through a farther rim of
tropical vegetation came out on a pearl-gray virgin beach where Ardita
kicked of her brown golf shoes--she seemed to have permanently
abandoned stockings--and went wading. Then they sauntered back to
the yacht, where the indefatigable Babe had luncheon ready for them.
He had posted a lookout on the high cliff to the north to watch the sea
on both sides, though he doubted if the entrance to the cliff was
generally known--he had never even seen a map on which the island
was marked.
"What's its name," asked Ardita--"the island, I mean?"
"No name 'tall," chuckled Babe. "Reckin she jus' island, 'at's all."
In the late afternoon they sat with their backs against great boulders on
the highest part of the cliff and Carlyle sketched for her his vague plans.
He was sure they were hot after him by this time. The total proceeds of
the coup he had pulled off and concerning which he still refused to
enlighten her, he estimated as just under a million dollars. He counted
on lying up here several weeks and then setting off southward, keeping
well outside the usual channels of travel rounding the Horn and
heading for Callao, in Peru. The details of coaling and provisioning he
was leaving entirely to Babe who, it seemed, had sailed these seas in
every capacity from cabin-boy aboard a coffee trader to virtual first
mate on a Brazillian pirate craft, whose skipper had long since been
hung.
"If he'd been