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.”
“The woman, you mean?”
“The woman nothing. She’s a wooden peg to hang your ideas on. I mean the man she married.”
“But he is so unimportant,” Jarvis protested.
“He was important enough to get this interview. I never would have bothered with you, or with your play, if it hadn’t been for that character. He’s new.”
“You want me to make him a bigger part in the play?”
