“Paul is so deep these days, and I’m so glad he’s found some one to interest him.” “I dont believe I do.” The thought escapes from Bona just a moment before her anger at having said it. Bona: You little puffy cat, I do. I do! Dont I, Paul? her eyes ask. Her answer is a crash of jazz from the palm-hidden orchestra. Crimson Gardens is a body whose blood flows to a clot upon the dance floor. Art and Helen clot. Soon, Bona and Paul. Paul finds her a little stiff, and his mind, wandering to Helen (silly little kid who wants every highball spoon her hands touch, for a souvenir), supple, perfect little dancer, wishes for the next dance when he and Art will exchange. Bona knows that she must win him to herself. “Since when have men like you grown cold?” “The first philosopher.” “I thought you were a poet—or a gym director.” “Hence, your failure to make love.” Bona’s eyes flare. Water. Grow red about the rims. She would like to tear away from him and dash across the clotted floor. “What do you mean?” “Mental concepts rule you. If they were flush with mine—good. I dont believe they are.” “How do you know, Mr. Philosopher?” “Mostly a priori.” “You talk well for a gym director.” “And you—” “I hate you. Ou!” She presses away. Paul, conscious of the convention in it, pulls her to him. Her body close. Her head still strains away. He nearly crushes her. She tries to pinch him. Then sees people staring, and lets her arms fall. Their eyes meet. Both, contemptuous. The dance takes blood from their minds and packs it, tingling, in the torsos of their swaying bodies. Passionate blood leaps back into their eyes. They are a dizzy blood clot on a gyrating floor. They know that the pink-faced people have no part in what they feel. Their instinct leads them away from Art and Helen, and towards the big uniformed black man who opens and closes the gilded exit door. The cloak-room girl is tolerant of their impatience over such trivial things as wraps. And slightly superior. As the black man swings the door for them, his eyes are knowing. Too many couples have passed out, flushed and fidgety, for him not to know. The chill air is a shock to Paul. A strange thing happens. He sees the Gardens purple, as if he were way off. And a spot is in the purple. The spot comes furiously towards him. Face of the black man. It leers. It smiles sweetly like a child’s. Paul leaves Bona and darts back so quickly that he doesnt give the door-man a chance to open. He swings in. Stops. Before the huge bulk of the Negro. “Youre wrong.” “Yassur.” “Brother, youre wrong.”