He was out and back, almost at once, bowing and holding the door open.
"Right ahead, into the private office," he said, importantly. A clerk took charge of our hero at the far door, announcing formally, "Mr. Jarvis Jocelyn, Mr. Frohman."
Jarvis entered the big room and crossed eyes with the man at the far end. What Mr. Frohman saw was a tall, splendidly set-up youth, with a head held high, and a fearless, free carriage, attired in the very strange and battered habiliments of a cabby. What Jarvis saw was a fat little man, with a round face, sharp, twinkling eyes, and a genial mouth. The whole face had a humorous cast, a kindly expression.
"You are Jarvis Jocelyn?" said Mr. Frohman, as Jarvis reached him.
"I am."
"You wrote a play called 'Success'?"
"I did."
"I've read your play."
"That's good."
"Well, the play isn't," Frohman interrupted, "It is extremely bad, but there are some ideas in it, and one good part."