He has a wide acquaintance among medical men and knows a good deal about modern medical problems. His advice is often sought by persons seeking treatment; he gives it copiously. He knows mathematics up to plane geometry and trigonometry. He knows philosophy, chemistry, and history, but is ignorant of physics and grammar. He can draw with some skill, and was once a good mechanical draftsman. He is an excellent speller and knows how to punctuate. In philosophy he is a strict mechanist of the Loeb-Haeckel school. In psychology he leans toward Adler. He questions pragmatism, but admits its workableness. He is an advocate of absolute free speech in all things—and exhibits the utmost intolerance in combatting those who oppose it. He believes and argues that sex is a vastly less potent influence in life than the Puritans and psychanalysts maintain. He advocates the establishment of lay monasteries for men who care for neither God nor women. When he is at home he lunches at noon and dines at six. He never eats between meals. He never takes a drink before dinner save when on holiday. He most often begins his letters to men with the salutation “My dear Mon Chair.” To women, “My dear Mon Chairy.” A March ago, he attempted to give up smoking and sought to alleviate his longing for the weed by sucking slippery elm. He was again pulling at a stogie the following month. He has probably done more for talented young writers who have tried in vain to get a hearing with publishers than any other American critic. Of all those whom he has helped to obtain an hospitable ear, only one has ever so much as thanked him. He forgives anything in a friend—theft, perjury, or stupidity—anything save hypocrisy. But he has no use for loyalty in others. “Loyalty,” he says, “is the virtue of a dog.” He pokes fun at modern musical comedy, particularly the music thereof. Yet he has never heard “Sari” or “The Purple Road,” or the best of the last dozen scores of Victor Herbert. He believes, with Nathan, that the three best stories printed in _The Smart Set_ under their joint editorial direction have been “The Exiles’ Club,” by Dunsany; “Ashes to Ashes,” by James Gardner Sanderson; and “The End of Ilsa Menteith,” by Lilith Benda. He believes, like Nathan, that the most charming sentimental story printed in _The Smart Set_ has been Lee Pape’s “Little Girl.” He believes, with Nathan, that the best epigram has been that sent in by an anonymous contributor: “When love dies there is no funeral. The corpse remains in the house.” He met Nathan for the first time in the chateau of the Comtesse Hélène de Firelle in the valley of the Loire, on August 10, 1906. Three days later they left together for a trip to Munich, to drink the waters. One of his best pieces of humor is a pun on “_non compos mentis_.” I cannot print it. A healthy man, he yet complains hourly of imaginary ailments. He has never seen Coney Island.