He is entirely ignorant of mathematics, geology, botany, and physics. Like Mencken, however, he is a good speller, and is privy to the intricacies of punctuation. The name of the girl who manicures his nails is Miss Priscilla Brown. She is an orphan. The claret he commonly serves to his guests costs eighty-five cents a gallon, in quarts. He buys the labels separately. His favorite hospitals are the Johns Hopkins, in Baltimore, and Galen Hall, in Atlantic City. Whenever he is ill he goes to one or the other. Since 1901 he has loved seventeen different girls, and still remembers the names of all of them, and their preferences in literature, food, and wines. Of the seventeen, fourteen are happily married, one has been married and divorced, and the rest have gone West. He owns three watches, seventeen scarf-pins, and nineteen pairs of shoes. His skull is sub-brachycephalic, with a cephalic index of 83.1. His cranial capacity, by the system of Deniker, is 1756 cc. His nose is mesorhinian, and his nasal index is 46.2. The ratio between the length of his radius and that of his humerus is as 73 is to 100. By the Binet-Simon test his general intelligence is that of a man of 117 years. His voice is a baritone, with a range of one octave and two tones. He never answers questions put to him in letters. A friend presented him several years ago with a set of O. Henry, which, try as he will, he can’t get rid of. He would rather eat a salt-sprinkled raw tomato still hot from the sun than a dinner from the hand of a French chef. He has everything he wears made to his order, save his belts and his socks. He never buys even a hat that is ready-made. He has written under the pseudonyms of George Narét, Rupert Cross, and William Drayham. He has been denounced in the New York newspapers, during his career as dramatic critic, by three playwrights, five theatrical managers, eight actresses, twenty-two actors, and almost everyone connected with vaudeville. He likes garlic, but refrains from eating it. He has read Max Beerbohm’s “Happy Hypocrite” thirteen times. Like Mencken, he is subject to periodic attacks of melancholia. He has visited every American resort north of Old Point Comfort—and thinks them all pretty bad. He believes the Ritz, in Philadelphia, to be the best hotel in America. He believes the Hudson Theater, in New York, to be the most comfortable theater in America. Several years ago, seeking isolation in which to finish a piece of work, he decided to shut his eyes, run his finger down a New York Central time-table, and go to the place opposite the name of which his finger would come to a halt. His finger stopped opposite an exotic something named New Paltz.... The first person he saw when he got off at the New Paltz station was the man he had roomed with in his junior year at college. He has said that “cleverness” consists merely in saying the wrong thing at the right time. He owns three suits of evening clothes.