First Mrs. Parker would show you the double parlours.
You would not dare to interrupt her description of theiradvantages and of the merits of the gentleman who hadoccupied them for eight years. Then you would manageto stammer forth the confession that you were neither adoctor nor a dentist. Mrs. Parker’s manner of receivingthe admission was such that you could never afterwardentertain the same feeling toward your parents， who hadneglected to train you up in one of the professions thatfitted Mrs. Parker’s parlours.
Next you ascended one flight of stairs and looked at thesecond-floor-back at 8. Convinced by her second-floormanner that it was worth the 12 that Mr. Toosenberryalways paid for it until he left to take charge of hisbrother’s orange plantation in Florida near Palm Beach，where Mrs. McIntyre always spent the winters that hadthe double front room with private bath， you managed tobabble that you wanted something still cheaper.
If you survived Mrs. Parker’s scorn， you were taken tolook at Mr. Skidder’s large hall room on the third floor.
Mr. Skidder’s room was not vacant. He wrote plays andsmoked cigarettes in it all day long. But every room-hunterwas made to visit his room to admire the lambrequins.
After each visit， Mr. Skidder， from the fright caused bypossible eviction， would pay something on his rent.
Then—oh， then—if you still stood on one foot， with yourhot hand clutching the three moist dollars in your pocket，and hoarsely proclaimed your hideous and culpable poverty，nevermore would Mrs. Parker be cicerone of yours. Shewould honk loudly the word “Clara，” she would show youher back， and march downstairs. Then Clara， the colouredmaid， would escort you up the carpeted ladder that servedfor the fourth flight， and show you the Skylight Room. Itoccupied 7×8 feet of floor space at the middle of the hall.
On each side of it was a dark lumber closet or storeroom.
In it was an iron cot， a washstand and a chair. A shelf wasthe dresser. Its four bare walls seemed to close in upon youlike the sides of a coffin. Your hand crept to your throat，you gasped， you looked up as from a well—and breathedonce more. Through the glass of the little skylight you sawa square of blue infinity.
“Two dollars， suh，” Clara would say in her halfcontemptuous，half-Tuskegeenial tones.
One day Miss Leeson came hunting for a room. Shecarried a typewriter made to be lugged around by a muchlarger lady. She was a very little girl， with eyes and hair thathad kept on growing after she had stopped and that alwayslooked as if they were saying： “Goodness me！ Why didn’tyou keep up with us？”
Mrs. Parker showed her the double parlours. “In thiscloset，” she said， “one could keep a skeleton or anaestheticor coal—”
“But I am neither a doctor nor a dentist，” said MissLeeson， with a shiver.
Mrs. Parker gave her the incredulous， pitying， sneering， icystare that she kept for those who failed to qualify as doctorsor dentists， and led the way to the second floor back.
“Eight dollars？” said Miss Leeson. “Dear me！ I’m notHetty if I do look green. I’m just a poor little working girl.
Show me something higher and lower.”
Mr. Skidder jumped and strewed the floor with cigarettestubs at the rap on his door.
“Excuse me， Mr. Skidder，” said Mrs. Parker， with herdemon’s smile at his pale looks. “I didn’t know you werein. I asked the lady to have a look at your lambrequins.”
“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 erasingthe tall， black-haired heroine from his latest （unproduced）play and inserting a small， roguish one with heavy， brighthair and vivacious features.
“Anna Held’ll jump at it，” said Mr. Skidder to himself，putting his feet up against the lambrequins and disappearingin a cloud of smoke like an aerial cuttlefish.
Presently the tocsin call of “Clara！” sounded to the worldthe state of Miss Leeson’s purse. A dark goblin seized her，mounted a Stygian stairway， thrust her into a vault with aglimmer of light in its top and muttered the menacing andcabalistic words “Two dollars！”
“I’ll take it！” sighed Miss Leeson， sinking down upon thesqueaky iron bed.
Every day Miss Leeson went out to work. At night shebrought home papers with handwriting on them andmade copies with her typewriter. Sometimes she had nowork at night， and then she would sit on the steps of thehigh stoop with the other roomers. Miss Leeson was notintended for a sky-light room when the plans were drawnfor her creation. She was gay-hearted and full of tender，whimsical fancies. Once she let Mr. Skidder read to herthree acts of his great （unpublished） comedy， “It’s No Kid；or， The Heir of the Subway.”
There was rejoicing among the gentlemen roomerswhenever Miss Leeson had time to sit on the steps foran hour or two. But Miss Longnecker， the tall blondewho taught in a public school and said， “Well， really！” toeverything you said， sat on the top step and sniffed. AndMiss Dorn， who shot at the moving ducks at Coney everySunday and worked in a department store， sat on thebottom step and sniffed. Miss Leeson sat on the middlestep and the men would quickly group around her.
Especially Mr. Skidder， who had cast her in his mind forthe star part in a private， romantic （unspoken） drama inreal 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 toleave off cigarettes. The men voted her “the funniest andjolliest ever，” but the sniffs on the top step and the lowerstep were implacable.
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