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.
She went to dances, but though sometimes she toddled a bit, mostly she sat out or tucked in.
During her three years as a waitress several customers looked at her with interest though without much principle.
The president of a well-known bank, the proprietor of a folding-bed concern, a retired plumber, a Divinity student and a ticket-chopper.