"Only those whom the women take," said Frohman. "The others go to musical shows. Have some more crêpes Suzette."
"But what do the critics say?" I persisted.
"My dear Paul," said Frohman, solemnly, "they call me a 'commercial manager' because I won't play Ibsen or Maeterlinck. They didn't help me when I tried for higher game. I had years of poverty, years of privation. To-day I take advantage of a general feminine desire to view Miss Tottie Coughdrop; and, to the critics, I'm a mere Bulgarian, a 'commercial manager.' So was Lester Wallack when he admitted 'The World' to his classic theater. So was Augustin Daly when he banished Shakespeare in favor of 'The Great Ruby.' If the critics want to reform the stage, let them begin by reforming the public."
In his cabin on the Lusitania he showed me a mass of yellow manuscript, scribbled over with hieroglyphics in blue pencil.
"That's my play," he said, very simply.
"Shall I take it home and read it?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "I will try it on Barrie and bring it back in better shape."
So he shook hands and sailed with his cherished drama, which reposes to-day, not on the summit of Mont Blanc, but at the bottom of the Irish Sea.
XVI
"C. F." AT REHEARSALS