The devil of perversity seized Lottie. "I hate driving in town. I've trundled that electric of ours over these fifty miles—or is it one hundred?—of boulevards until I could follow the route blindfolded. Jackson Park to the Midway—the Midway to Washington Park—Washington to Garfield—Garfield——"
"Well, then, how about a drive in the country? Anywhere you say, Miss Lottie. The little old bus is yours to command."
"All right," said Lottie. "Let's take Charley."
"Fine!" Ben's tone was sufficiently hearty, if somewhat hollow. "Great little kid, Charley. What do you say to having lunch at one of those road-houses along the way? Chicken dinner."
"Oh, no! Let's cook out." Ben, looking dubious, regarded the end of his cigar. But Lottie was already on her way to the kitchen. He clapped on his derby hat and went out to look over the bus. Aside from keeping it supplied with oil and gasoline its insides were as complete a mystery to him as the workings of the solar system. Lottie, flushed and animated, was slicing bacon, cutting sandwiches, measuring out coffee. She loved a day in the country, Ben or no Ben. They telephoned Charley. She said, "Can I take Jesse? His fliv's got something the matter with its insides. We had planned to go to Thornton."
"Sure," Ben agreed again when Lottie put this to him. On the way to the Kemp apartment they stopped at a delicatessen and bought cream, fruit, wieners, cheese, salad. As she stepped out of the car Lottie saw that the fat gold letters on the window spelled "Dick's Delicatessen—And Bakery." She was conscious of a little shock. Immediately she was ashamed that this should be so. Dick's delicatessen was white-tiled, immaculate, smelling of things spiced and fruity and pickled. A chubby florid man with a shock of curly rust-red hair waited on her. He was affable, good-natured.
"Going on a picnic, h'm?" he said. He gave her good measure—too good for his own profit, Lottie thought. She glanced about for the wife. She must be the business man of this concern. Mrs. Dick was not there.
"Are you Mr. Dick?" Lottie asked.
"Yes ma'am! I sure am." He began to total the sales, using the white marble counter as a tablet for his pencil. "Cheese—wieners—tongue—pickles—cream—that'll be one dollar and forty-three cents. If you bring back the cream bottle with this ticket you get five cents refund."
She thought of the slim and exquisite Charley; of Belle, the fastidious. "Oh, pooh!" she said to herself as she went out to the car with Ben, bundle-laden, "she's only a kid. A temporary case on a near-poet, that's all."