had a miserable time of it that afternoon. For
my expressions of contentment with the world had spread. Unconsciously
a chef would whistle a bit here as he mixed his gravy ingredients,
another there as he minced chicken, yet another in still another
direction as he arranged a bowl of vegetables. Schmitz's head swirled
first in one direction, then in another. Aching he was to reduce the
universe to his perpetual state of gloom. But chefs he stood in awe
of. He dared silence only me, and every so often I forgot.

So the Spaniard asked me why I was so happy. I had no reason. Only a
great multitude of reasons why there was no excuse to be anything
else, but I did not go into that. He would know, though.

"What did you do last night?"

"Ho!" I laughed at him, "rode home on the top of a bus!"

A bit later a piece of folded paper landed almost in my French
dressing. It was a note from the Spaniard: "Will you go riding with me
to-night?" I wrote on the bottom of the paper: "Not to-night. Perhaps
next week, yes?" A few moments later a folded menu landed on the
floor. On the back was written: "I will be very pleased whenever you
can or wish. Could it be Sunday? I hope you wouldn't take it amiss my
asking you this. Frank."

I really wanted to take that bus ride with Frank. It still worries me
that I did not. He was such a lonesome person.

Then there was the tall, lean, dark Irish waiter I called Mr.
O'Sullivan. He was a continual joy to my heart and gave me cause for
many a chuckle. A rebel, was Mr. O'Sullivan. I heard Kelly call him
down twice for growling at what he considered inexcusable desires in
the matter of food or service on the part of patrons by telling Mr.
O'Sullivan it was none of his ---- business. But I loved to listen to
Mr. O'Sullivan's growlings, and once he realized that, he used to stop
at my counter, take extra long to collect three slices of lemon, and
tell me his latest grievance. To-night, this Thursday, he was
sputtering.

"Shure and de y'know what now? I've two parties out there want finger
bowls. _Finger bowls!_" sputtered Mr. O'Sullivan.

"Shure an' it's a long ways from the sight of finger bowls them two
was born. It had better be a pail apiece they'd be askin' for. Finger
bowls indeed!" Mr. O'Sullivan had gotten down to a mumble. "Shure an'
they make me _sick_!"

Mr. O'Sullivan knew that I gave ear to his sentiments upon such
matters as old parties, male or female, who must needs order spe