"Not a curved line in it!" announces the South Sider, largely. "Frank Lloyd Wright designed it. Not a curved line in it—roof, balcony, pillars, statues—anywhere."
Your surprised and grateful eyes confirm this boast as you glance about at the scene before you.
Ben Gartz was fussy about his table. Near one of three dancing platforms—but not too near. Near the music—but not too near. On the terrace where one could see and be seen—but not too exposed to the public gaze. At last they found it.
It was deliciously cool there in that great unroofed space. There was even a breeze, miraculously caught within the four walls of the Garden. They ordered iced drinks. There was a revue, between the general dancing numbers. Ben applauded this revue vigorously. He seemed to know a good deal about the girls who took part in it. Very young girls they were, and exquisitely slim. Some of them had almost the angular lines of adolescence. In one number they were supposed to represent Light—Candle Light, Gas Light, Lamp Light, Electricity, Moonlight, Sunlight, Starlight. Their costumes were bizarre, scanty to a degree that would have been startling had they been less young and reticent of flesh.
"I see you've got a couple of new ones," Ben remarked to Albert, the head waiter, as that urbane individual passed their table.
"Yes," said Albert; and again, "Yes," in order not to seem less than unctuous.
Lottie said to herself, "Oh, Lottie, don't be so magnificent. He isn't so bad. He's enjoying himself, that's all. You're just a middle-aged old gal who ought to be glad of the chance to spend a cool evening in the Midway Garden, drinking claret lemonade. Glad of the chance."
But she wasn't.
Ben was all for dancing, of course. He had become amazingly proficient at it, as does your plump middle-aged playboy. Lottie liked to dance, too. She discovered that she didn't particularly like to dance with Ben, though he was light, expert, and skillful at avoiding collisions even on that crowded floor. Proximity proved him moist, soft, and protuberant.
Seated at their table it was cool and almost restful. A row of slim trees showed a fairy frieze above the tiled balcony that enclosed the garden. The lights of the garden fell on them and gave them an unreal quality. They seemed weird, dazzling. Lottie thought they looked like trees in a Barrie fantasy. She opened her lips to utter this thought. Then, "He won't know what I mean," she said to herself. Ben was eating an ice out of a tall silver goblet. "Take a fruit ice like this," he had explained, "there's nothing fattening in it. Now ice cream, that's different. Not for me. Ice is all right, though. Raspberry ice."