And indeed, as she allowed her eyes to follow the lagoon until it lost itself in the broader waters of the lake, she found them filled with the ever-changing lights of a stage on opening night. Gayly decorated barges drawn by small power boats drifted past. A bevy of girls, all garbed in gowns of bright red, shot past in a speed boat. They were singing, “Sailing! Sailing!”
From a floating platform came the martial music of a band. Overhead an airplane motor droned. The plane was shooting out a spiral of smoke. The smoke formed itself into clouds and on these clouds there played living, moving pictures.
As she lay there on the grass, head propped on elbow, watching, dreaming, like Petite Jeanne, she caught an unusual sound.
“Not far away,” she whispered. “Over there among the banana leaves, perhaps.” She thought of investigating this. But she was tired, and as she had promised to wait for Jeanne’s preview she wished to rest.
So she dismissed the matter from her mind and once again allowed her mind to drift.
“Wonderful spot, this,” she whispered to herself. “Probably never be seen in Chicago again, orange trees loaded with fruits and flowers.”
This was true. With endless pains men had grown trees in boxes, then had shipped them to the Fair. There were lemon trees, and mangoes, and tall trees that grew tropical melons. In one spot there was a perfect tangle of tropical vegetation.
“Yes, and banana trees.”
Once again her eyes were upon that cluster of banana trees.
“There is something moving there.”