Flappers and Philosophers | Page 8

white he'd have been king of South America long ago,"
said Carlyle emphatically. "When it comes to intelligence he makes
Booker T. Washington look like a moron. He's got the guile of every
race and nationality whose blood is in his veins, and that's half a dozen
or I'm a liar. He worships me because I'm the only man in the world
who can play better ragtime than he can. We used to sit together on the
wharfs down on the New York water-front, he with a bassoon and me
with an oboe, and we'd blend minor keys in African harmonics a
thousand years old until the rats would crawl up the posts and sit round
groaning and squeaking like dogs will in front of a phonograph."

Ardita roared.
"How you can tell 'em!"
Carlyle grinned.
"I swear that's the gos---"
"What you going to do when you get to Callao?" she interrupted.
"Take ship for India. I want to be a rajah. I mean it. My idea is to go up
into Afghanistan somewhere, buy up a palace and a reputation, and
then after about five years appear in England with a foreign accent and
a mysterious past. But India first. Do you know, they say that all the
gold in the world drifts very gradually back to India. Something
fascinating about that to me. And I want leisure to read--an immense
amount."
"How about after that?"
"Then," he answered defiantly, "comes aristocracy. Laugh if you want
to--but at least you'll have to admit that I know what I want--which I
imagine is more than you do."
"On the contrary," contradicted Ardita, reaching in her pocket for her
cigarette case, "when I met you I was in the midst of a great uproar of
all my friends and relatives because I did know what I wanted."
"What was it?"
"A man."
He started.
"You mean you were engaged?"
"After a fashion. If you hadn't come aboard I had every intention of
slipping ashore yesterday evening--how long ago it seems--and meeting
him in Palm Beach. He's waiting there for me with a bracelet that once

belonged to Catherine of Russia. Now don't mutter anything about
aristocracy," she put in quickly. "I liked him simply because he had had
an imagination and the utter courage of his convictions."
"But your family disapproved, eh?"
"What there is of it--only a silly uncle and a sillier aunt. It seems he got
into some scandal with a red-haired woman name Mimi something--it
was frightfully exaggerated, he said, and men don't lie to me--and
anyway I didn't care what he'd done; it was the future that counted. And
I'd see to that. When a man's in love with me he doesn't care for other
amusements. I told him to drop her like a hot cake, and he did."
"I feel rather jealous," said Carlyle, frowning--and then he laughed. "I
guess I'll just keep you along with us until we get to Callao. Then I'll
lend you enough money to get back to the States. By that time you'll
have had a chance to think that gentleman over a little more."
"Don't talk to me like that!" fired up Ardita. "I won't tolerate the
parental attitude from anybody! Do you understand me?" He chuckled
and then stopped, rather abashed, as her cold anger seemed to fold him
about and chill him.
"I'm sorry," he offered uncertainly.
"Oh, don't apologize! I can't stand men who say 'I'm sorry' in that
manly, reserved tone. Just shut up!"
A pause ensued, a pause which Carlyle found rather awkward, but
which Ardita seemed not to notice at all as she sat contentedly enjoying
her cigarette and gazing out at the shining sea. After a minute she
crawled out on the rock and lay with her face over the edge looking
down. Carlyle, watching her, reflected how it seemed impossible for
her to assume an ungraceful attitude.
"Oh, look," she cried. "There's a lot of sort of ledges down there. Wide
ones of all different heights."

"We'll go swimming to-night!" she said excitedly. "By moonlight."
"Wouldn't you rather go in at the beach on the other end?"
"Not a chance. I like to dive. You can use my uncle's bathing suit, only
it'll fit you like a gunny sack, because he's a very flabby man. I've got a
one-piece that's shocked the natives all along the Atlantic coast from
Biddeford Pool to St. Augustine."
"I suppose you're a shark."
"Yes, I'm pretty good. And I look cute too. A sculptor up at Rye last
summer told me my calves are worth five hundred dollars."
There didn't seem to be any answer to this, so Carlyle was silent,
permitting himself only a discreet interior smile.

V

When the night crept down in shadowy