And she had an ambition. At present beyond her grasp, yet so sure was she of its ultimate attainment, that she shaped her entire cosmic consciousness toward that end. Her ambition was not unique, perhaps not unattainable. It had been achieved by others with seemingly little effort and less skill; and though as yet, merely a radiant hope, Warble was determined that some day she would gain her goal. Her ambition was to get married. Her sister had; her mother had; she politely assumed her grandmother had. She would. Often she imagined herself the heroine of delightful scenes she watched at the cinema. She loved the slow unwinding of the story on the screen, but when engaged with her imagination she hurried it on in haste to reach the final close-up. * * * * * It was at no one's advice, but because of her own inner yearnings that Warble took a job as waitress in a Bairns' Restaurant. She reveled in the white tiles, the white gloss paint, the eternal clearing-up and the clatter of flatware. She loved the flatware--it always made her think of a wedding--sometimes of her own. She adored the white-capped King Alfred baking his cakes in the window, but 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. 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. None of these made her bat an eyelash. For months no male came up for air. Then, the restaurant door swung back on its noiseless check and spring, and in walked Big Bill Petticoat. CHAPTER II