Owned by Sean MacPherson, the hotelier behind the Bowery Hotel, the Marlton has the same swellegant, if miniaturist, sensibility. Its rooms look like they were airlifted from one of the Grand Dame hotels of Paris . . . and shrunk. Sadly, as with MacPherson’s other properties, the rooms are Lilliputian (150 square feet is the standard size). But if you’re not claustrophobic, they offer a good dose of old-fashioned glamor, with aqua-blue velvet headboards, fake fur throws at the end of the beds, crown moldings on the ceilings (a nice contrast to the chandeliers, which look like Calder mobiles), and coy brass hands holding up the sconces that serve as reading lights. Plus the lobby, which looks like the anteroom of a British men’s club, is a charming place for lounging and dining (there’s an on-site coffee bar and restaurant). You won’t be the first to have squeezed yourself into one of these tiny rooms: The building started as a hotel in 1900, and in the course of its many iterations was home to Jack Kerouac, who wrote a few novellas here.