w what I
mean. This may have been due to the fact that her eyes were brown while
her hair was gold, or it may have been something about the way her
collars fitted high, and tight, and smooth, or the way her close white
sleeves came down to meet her pretty hands, or the way her shining hair
sprang from her forehead. Also the smooth creaminess of her clear skin
may have had something to do with it. But privately, I think it was due
to the way she wore her shirtwaists. Miss Gussie Fink could wear a
starched white shirtwaist under a close-fitting winter coat, remove the
coat, run her right forefinger along her collar's edge and her left thumb
along the back of her belt and disclose to the admiring world a blouse as
unwrinkled and unsullied as though it had just come from her own skilful
hands at the ironing board. Miss Gussie Fink was so innately,
flagrantly, beautifully clean-looking that--well, there must be a stop to
this description.

She was the kind of girl you'd like to see behind the counter of your
favorite delicatessen, knowing that you need not shudder as her fingers
touch your Sunday night supper slices of tongue, and Swiss cheese, and
ham. No girl had ever dreamed of refusing to allow Gussie to borrow her
chamois for a second.

To-night Miss Fink had come on at 10 P.M., which was just two hours later
than usual. She knew that she was to work until 6 A.M., which may have
accounted for the fact that she displayed very little of what the fans
call ginger as she removed her hat and coat and hung them on the hook
behind the desk. The prospect of that all-night, eight-hour stretch may
have accounted for it, I say. But privately, and entre nous, it didn't.
For here you must know of Heiny. Heiny, alas! now Henri.

Until two weeks ago Henri had been Heiny and Miss Fink had been Kid.
When Henri had been Heiny he had worked in the kitchen at many things,
but always with a loving eye on Miss Gussie Fink. Then one wild night
there had been a waiters' strike--wages or hours or tips or all three.
In the confusion that followed Heiny had been pressed into service and a
chopped coat. He had fitted into both with unbelievable nicety, proving
that waiters are born, not made. Those little tricks and foibles that
are characteristic of the genus waiter seemed to envelop him as though a
fairy garment had fallen upon his shoulders. The folded napkin under his
left arm seemed to have been placed there by nature, so perf