white silk lining inside his Prince of Wales derby--I've watched him for
more than a month now. Here he comes, his pointed button shoes, his
razor-edged trousers, his natty tan overcoat with its high waist band and
its amazing lapels that stick up over his shoulders like the ears of a
jackass, here he comes embroidered and scented and looking like a cross
between a soft-shoe dancer and a somnambulist. And here he takes his
position, holding his gloves in his hand, his Prince of Wales derby jammed
down on his patent-leather hair.

Observe him. This is a pose. He is living up to a fashion illustration in
one of the magazines. Or perhaps he is duplicating an attitude of some one
studied in a Michigan Avenue club entrance. His right arm is crooked as if
he were about to place his hand over his heart and bow. His left arm hangs
with a slight curve at his side. His feet should be together, but they
shift nervously. His head is turned to the left and slightly raised--like
a movie actor posing for a cigarette advertisement.

And there he stands, a dead ringer for one of the waxen dummies to be seen
in a Halsted Street Men's Snappy Furnishings Store.

* * * * *

I've watched him for a month, off and on. And his face still says nothing.
His eyes are curiously emotionless. They appear suddenly in his face. He
is undersized. His nose, despite the recent massage and powder, has a
slight oleaginous gleam to it. The cheek bones are a bit high, the mouth a
trifle wide and the chin slightly bulbous. As he blinks about him with his
small, almost Mongolian eyes he looks like some honest little immigrant
from Bohemia or Poland whom a malignant sorcerer has changed into a
caricature fashion plate. This is, indeed, the legend of Cinderella and