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Updated: June 8, 2025
When Ardita, reading in her favorite seat, came to the last page of The Revolt of the Angels, and slamming the book shut looked up and saw it, she gave a little cry of delight, and called to Carlyle, who was standing moodily by the rail. "Is this it? Is this where you're going?" Carlyle shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "You've got me."
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.
Being a supreme egotist Ardita frequently thought about herself; never having had her egotism disputed she did it entirely naturally and with no detraction from her unquestioned charm.
"Hm," he said, "Stonewall Jackson claimed that lemon-juice cleared his head. Your head feel pretty clear?" Ardita disdained to answer. "Because inside of five minutes you'll have to make a clear decision whether it's go or stay." He picked up the book and opened it curiously. "The Revolt of the Angels. Sounds pretty good. French, eh?" He stared at her with new interest "You French?" "No."
"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 came out of one of those bags. You see, Curtis Carlyle and his Six Black Buddies, in the middle of their performance in the tea-room of the hotel at Palm Beach, suddenly changed their instruments for automatics and held up the crowd. I took this bracelet from a pretty, overrouged woman with red hair." Ardita frowned and then smiled. "So that's what you did! You HAVE got nerve!" He bowed.
Ardita appeared at the head of the companionway and gave a quick involuntary glance at Carlyle's wrists. A puzzled look passed across her face. Back aft the negroes had begun to sing, and the cool lake, fresh with dawn, echoed serenely to their low voices. "Ardita," said Carlyle unsteadily. She swayed a step toward him. "Ardita," he repeated breathlessly, "I've got to tell you the the truth.
He handed one over and held a match for her gently. "Still," Ardita continued, "the men kept gathering old men and young men, my mental and physical inferiors, most of them, but all intensely desiring to have me to own this rather magnificent proud tradition I'd built up round me. Do you see?" "Sort of. You never were beaten and you never apologized." "Never!"
Ardita took a carved jade case from her pocket, extracted a cigarette and lit it with a conscious coolness, though she knew her hand was trembling a little; then she crossed over with her supple, swinging walk, and sitting down in the other settee blew a mouthful of smoke at the awning.
Ardita scarcely touched her food as she watched his dark young face handsome, ironic faintly ineffectual. He began life as a poor kid in a Tennessee town, he said, so poor that his people were the only white family in their street.
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