in an exaggerated carelessness of dress and manner. It was perhaps
his habit of thought as much as anything else that had made him a
dramatic critic; but it was a knack for keen analysis and a
natural, caustic wit that had raised him to eminence in his field.
Outwardly he was a sloven and a misanthrope; inwardly he was
simple and rather boyish, but years of experience in a box-office,
then as advance man and publicity agent for a circus, and finally
as a Metropolitan reviewer, had destroyed his illusions and soured
his taste for theatrical life. His column was widely read; his
name was known; as a prophet he was uncanny, hence managers
treated him with a gingerly courtesy not always quite sincere.

Most men attain success through love of their work; Mr. Pope had
become an eminent critic because of his hatred for the drama and
all things dramatic. Nor was he any more enamoured of journalism,
being in truth by nature bucolic, but after trying many
occupations and failing in all of them he had returned to his desk
after each excursion into other fields. First-night audiences knew
him now, and had come to look for his thin, sharp features. His
shapeless, wrinkled suit that resembled a sleeping-bag; his
flannel shirt, always tieless and frequently collarless, were
considered attributes of genius; and, finding New York to be
amazingly gullible, he took a certain delight in accentuating his
eccentricities. At especially prominent premieres he affected a
sweater underneath his coat, but that was his nearest approach to
formal evening dress. Further concession to fashion he made none.

Owing to the dearth of new productions this summer, Pope had
undertaken a series of magazine articles descriptive of the
reigning theatrical beauties, and, while he detested women in