Free The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and Other Jazz Age Stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald

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 attempt 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.
    â€œTake 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.
    â€œYou can, you know.”
    She laughed.
    â€œIs it a proposal of marriage? Extra! Ardita Farnam becomes pirate’s bride. Society girl kidnapped by ragtime bank robber.”
    â€œIt wasn’t a bank.”
    â€œWhat was it? Why won’t you tell me?”
    â€œI don’t want to break down your illusions.”
    â€œMy dear man, I have no illusions about you.”
    â€œI mean your illusions about yourself.”
    She looked up in surprise.
    â€œAbout myself! What on earth have I got to do with whatever stray felonies you’ve committed?”
    â€œThat remains to be seen.”
    She reached over and patted his hand.
    â€œDear Mr. Curtis Carlyle,” she said softly, “are you in love with me?”
    â€œAs if it mattered.”
    â€œBut it does—because I think I’m in love with you.”
    He looked at her ironically.
    â€œThus swelling your January total to half a dozen,” he suggested. “Suppose I call your bluff and ask you to come to India with me?”
    â€œShall I?”
    He shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œWe can get married in Callao.”
    â€œWhat 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?”
    â€œI thought you weren’t afraid.”
    â€œI never am—but I won’t throw my life away just to show one man I’m not.”
    â€œI wish you’d been poor. Just a little poor girl dreaming over a fence in a warm cow country.”
    â€œWouldn’t it have been nice?”
    â€œI’d have enjoyed astonishing you—watching your eyes open on things. If you only wanted things! Don’t you see?”
    â€œI know—like girls who stare into the windows of jewelry-stores.”
    â€œYes—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 dollars. 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.”
    â€œThat sounds so nice and vulgar—and fun, doesn’t it?” murmured Ardita.
    â€œDoesn’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!”
    â€œI honestly wish we were that way.”
    â€œI love you, Ardita,” he said gently.
    Her