He sleeps on a sleeping porch adjoining his office. He uses, as a blanket, a Persian shawl presented to him by the late Lafcadio Hearn. He has read 9872 bad novels during his active life as a literary critic. He is an artist of no mean ability. His portrait of Nathan, reproduced in the Chicago _Daily News_ in May, 1917, attracted wide attention and, among other things, brought him requests for sittings from Hamlin Garland, William Lyon Phelps, and Robert B. Mantell. He clips the ends off his cigars with his side teeth. He has written under the pseudonyms of William R. Fink, William Drayham, John F. Brownell, Harriet Morgan, W. L. D. Bell, Gladys Jefferson, and Baroness Julie Desplaines. He sees nothing beautiful about the Hudson from Riverside Drive, but believes St. Thomas’s to be one of the most beautiful churches in the world. He collects odd pieces of furniture, Japanese wood carvings, and bad plaster of paris casts. He knows two actors, George Fawcett and Frank Craven. He was taught how to swim by John Adams Thayer. He is the author of a farce that has played on Broadway for one hundred nights. To this authorship, no one save Nathan, James Huneker, A. H. Woods, and myself have been privy. His high-water marks in the matter of malt bibbing are as follows: Pschorrbräu, Munich, 8 _masses_ in two hours and seven minutes; Appenrodt’s, Paris, 9 _seidels_ in one hour and a quarter; Lüchow’s, New York, 13 _seidels_ and one glass in one hour, twenty-one minutes and twelve seconds. Timers: Pschorrbräu, Arthur Abbott, H. B. M. vice-consul; Appenrodt’s, Pierre Disdebaux, of Marseilles, France; Lüchow’s, Theodore Dreiser, of Warsaw, Indiana, U. S. A. He was a regular reader of the _Boston Transcript_, the New York _Times_, and the _Youth’s Companion_, up to the age of ten. He believes W. L. George to be the best of the younger English novelists. His signature runs up hill. He has been cured of hay-fever and is at present writing a pamphlet extolling the discoverers of the cure. He admires the kind of Munich “art” that is sold in the Fifth Avenue shops at $4.35 the picture. He likes to look in shop windows. He has never ridden in a Ferris Wheel. He laments the fact that he gets no exercise and contemplates fixing up a carpenter shop in the basement of his house in Baltimore, so that he may saw and chop his arms back into muscular shape. He numbers the paragraphs of his letters and never writes more than six paragraphs. The English critics hailed his Nietzsche book as the best thing of its sort that had come out of America. He has never read Shakespeare’s “Venus and Adonis” or “Pericles, Prince of Tyre.”