Where was the fault? Was it in the piece, or in the way it had been played?
He realized that, although the piece was well constructed, it was not of a high, artistic character, such as must appeal by pure literary merit to the best class of theater patrons.
It could not be ranked with the best productions of Pinero, Jones, Howard, Thomas, or even Clyde Fitch. He had not written it with the hope of reaching such a level. His aim had been to make a “popular” piece, such as would appeal to the masses.
He fell to thinking over what had happened, and trying to understand the cause of it all. He did not lay the blame entirely on the actors.
It was not long before he decided that something about his play had led the spectators to expect more than they had received.
What was it they had expected?
While he was thinking of this alone in his room at the hotel, Bart Hodge, his old friend and a member of his company, came in. Hodge looked disgruntled, disappointed, disgusted. He sat down on the bed without speaking.
“Hello, old man,” said Frank, cheerfully. “What’s the matter with your face? It would sour new milk.”
“And you ought to have a face that would sour honey!” growled Bart. “I should if I were in your place.”
“What’s the use? That wouldn’t improve things.”