“Come over here.” She steered Jensie, who was at her side, into the shadow of the stadium for spectators.
Before the stadium, a proper distance off, a liberal section of a mountain had been reproduced. This was surprisingly real with trees, bushes, grass and rocks. Real flowers were in bloom.
This did not astonish Jeanne. She had become accustomed to the magic of Chicago scenery. It came and went, she knew that well enough. Four months before this greatest of all Fairs had opened there had not been a tree nor even a shrub upon its grounds. And now, there they were, hundreds of trees, some towering fifty feet in air, thousands of shrubs, miles of hedges.
“Magic,” Jeanne murmured.
“It’s very beautiful.” Jensie’s voice was low. “A very beautiful mountain. But it’s not Big Black Mountain.”
“Why? Tell me!” Jeanne’s voice was eager.
Jensie did tell her. For a full quarter of an hour Jeanne listened, and not a word escaped her.
When at last a short chubby man, who walked with a slight limp, appeared at the foot of the mountain she was ready. That Lorena LeMar was capable of an imperious manner befitting a queen, she knew well enough. She was Lorena LeMar now. She would be imperious.
“Ah! Miss LeMar!” The little man gripped the tips of her fingers. “What a day!” he enthused. “It is so bright, like a child with a washed face. And look! What a mountain I have got for you!”
Jeanne looked into his bright little eyes. She was shaking at the knees, but her voice was steady.