“They’re too lovely for anything,” said Miss Leeson, smiling in exactly the way the angels do.

After they had gone Mr. Skidder got very busy erasing the tall, black-haired heroine from his latest (unproduced) play and inserting a small, roguish one with heavy, bright hair and vivacious features.

“Anna Held’ll jump at it,” said Mr. Skidder to himself, putting his feet up against the lambrequins and disappearing in a cloud of smoke like an aerial cuttlefish.

Presently the tocsin call of “Clara!” sounded to the world the state of Miss Leeson’s purse.  A dark goblin seized her, mounted a Stygian stairway, thrust her into a vault with a glimmer of light in its top and muttered the menacing and cabalistic words “Two dollars!”

“I’ll take it!” sighed Miss Leeson, sinking down upon the squeaky iron bed.

Every day Miss Leeson went out to work.  At night she brought home papers with handwriting on them and made copies with her typewriter.  Sometimes she had no work at night, and then she would sit on the steps of the high stoop with the other roomers.  Miss Leeson was not intended for a sky-light room when the plans were drawn for her creation.  She was gay-hearted and full of tender, whimsical fancies.  Once she let Mr. Skidder read to her three acts of his great (unpublished) comedy, “It’s No Kid; or, The Heir of the Subway.”

There was rejoicing among the gentlemen roomers whenever Miss Leeson had time to sit on the steps for an hour or two.  But Miss Longnecker, the tall blonde who taught in a public school and said, “Well, really!” to everything you said, sat on the top step and sniffed.  And Miss Dorn, who shot at the moving ducks at Coney every Sunday and worked in a department store, sat on the bottom step and sniffed.  Miss Leeson sat on the middle step and the men would quickly group around her.

Especially Mr. Skidder, who had cast her in his mind for the star part in a private, romantic (unspoken) drama in real life.  And especially Mr. Hoover, who was forty-five, fat, flush and foolish.  And especially very young Mr. Evans, who set up a hollow cough to induce her to ask him to leave off cigarettes.  The men voted her “the funniest and jolliest ever,” but the sniffs on the top step and the lower step were implacable.

* * * * * *

I pray you let the drama halt while Chorus stalks to the footlights and drops an epicedian tear upon the fatness of Mr. Hoover.  Tune the pipes to the tragedy of tallow, the bane of bulk, the calamity of corpulence.  Tried out, Falstaff might have rendered more romance to the ton than would have Romeo’s rickety ribs to the ounce.  A lover may sigh, but he must not puff.  To the train of Momus are the fat men remanded.  In vain beats the faithfullest heart above a 52-inch belt.  Avaunt, Hoover!  Hoover, forty-five, flush and foolish, might carry off Helen herself; Hoover, forty-five, flush, foolish and fat is meat for perdition.  There was never a chance for you, Hoover.