the fairy godmother with an ending of pathos.

Yet, though his face says nothing, there is a provoking air to this little
fop. His studied inanimation, his crudely self-conscious pose, his dull,
little, peasant eyes staring at the faces that drift by in the
lobby--these ask for translation. Why is he here? What does he want? Why
does he come every evening and stand and watch the little hotel parade?
Ah, one never sees him in the dining room or on the dance floor. One never
meets him between the acts in the theater lobby. And one never sees him
talking to anybody. He is always alone. People pass him with a curious
glance and think to themselves, "Ah, a young man about town! What a shame
to dissipate like that!" They sometimes notice the masterly way in which
he sizes up a fur-coated "chicken" stalking thin-leggedly through the
lobby and think to themselves: "The scoundrel! He's the kind of creature
that makes a big city dangerous. A carefully combed and scented vulture
waiting to swoop down from the side lines."

Evening after evening between 6 o'clock and midnight he drifts in and out
of the lobby, up and down Randolph Street and takes up his position at
various points of vantage where crowds pass, where women pass. I've
watched him. No one ever talks to him. There are no salutations. He is
unknown and worse. For the women, the rouged and ornamental ones, know him
a bit too well. They know the carefully counted nickels in his trousers
pocket, the transfers he is saving for the three-cent rebate that may come
some day, the various newspaper coupons through which he hopes to make a
killing.

All this they know and through a sixth sense, a curious instinct of sex
divination, they know the necktie counter or information desk behind which
he works during the day, the stuffy bedroom to which he will go home to