merely as a fixture, as she adored the mute stacks of clean plates and the
piles of pathetic little serviettes.

In a more intimate and personal way she adored the pork and beans, the
ham and eggs, the corned beef and cabbage, and--importantly--the gentle,
easy-going puddings and cup custards. These things delighted her soul and
dimpled her body.

She was proud of her fellow-waitresses, proud of their aspirations (the
same as her own).

Having exceptional opportunity, Warble learned much of culinary art and
architecture, at least she became grounded in elementary alimentary
science.

She had little notebooks filled with rules for Parisian pastry, Hindu
recipes for curry; foreign dishes with modern American improvements.

Joyously she learned to make custard pie. This, as the tumultous future
proved, was indicative.

Only the little smiling gods of circumstance, wickedly winking at one
another, knew that when Warble whipped cream and beat eggs, she laid the
corner stone of a waiting Destiny, known as yet but to the blinking stars
above the murky Pittsburgh sky.

She was extravagant as to shoes and diet; and, on the whole, she felt that
she was living.

She was not mistaken.