When in his cups, he imagines himself a proficient bass singer. In the last three years he has been to the theater but once. On this occasion he accompanied Nathan to a piece called “Common Clay.” He remained twenty minutes. He uses handkerchiefs two feet wide. He always fights with Nathan for the bar or dinner check. His records of victories is eight per cent. Like Nathan, he dislikes to talk about business affairs or to listen to anyone talk about business affairs. Both he and Nathan leave their finances entirely in the hands of their competent partner, E. F. Warner. He and Nathan plan some day to collaborate on a satirical farce with scenes laid in a Turkish harem. In conversation he is given to an immoderate employment of the word “bemuse.” He believes the following to be his best epigram: “An anti-vivisectionist is one who gags at a guinea pig and swallows a baby.” To the contrary, I believe his best to be: “The charm of a man is measured by the charm of the women who think that he is a scoundrel.” He wrote dramatic criticisms in Baltimore for four years. At the end of that period, unable longer to bear the idiocies of the local theaters, he inserted a $200 half-page advertisement in each of the Baltimore newspapers to the effect that he would cause the arrest of the next manager who sent him tickets. He loves cocoanut pie. He smokes cigarettes only on rare occasions. He is not used to them and, on such occasions, holds the cigarette gingerly, as if it were going to bite him. Present at a mixed conversation, he frequently dozes off to sleep. When in New York, every night before retiring he eats a dozen large clams. He never drinks beer save in seidels. He has been to the Horse Show but once. On this occasion he remained three minutes. He does not dance. In Paris, in 1913, he hailed Nathan on the latter’s way to Southampton with this wireless: “Get off Cherbourg and come direct Paris. Have discovered place where they have good beer.” He is unable to sit at table upon finishing dinner. With the arrival of the finger-bowl he is off for a walk. He is, at bottom, a sentimentalist. True, he has no use for such things as babies, love stories (however good), or the Champs Élysées in the springtime (once while walking up the boulevard with Nathan he deplored the absence on it of a first-class drugstore), yet he succumbs moistly to Julia Sanderson singing, “They Wouldn’t Believe Me,” to a cemetery in the early green of May, to the lachrymose waltz from “Eva,” which he plays upon the piano in a melancholious _pianissimo_, and to any poem about a dog (however bad). His trousers are never creased. His clothes are always of a navy blue shade. He never wears a waistcoat. He buys the best cravats that can be obtained for fifty cents. He loves liqueurs, preferably _crême de cacao_. They always make him feel badly the next morning.