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.”

“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?”

“My advice is to throw this play in the wastebasket and write one about that man.”

“Will you produce it if I do?”

“Probably not, but I’ll look it over.  What else have you done?”

“I have finished two things.  One I call ’The Vision’—­this is a Brotherhood of Man play—­the other I call ‘Peace,’ and it’s a dramatization of the Universal Peace idea.”

“Why don’t you write something human?  Nobody wants dramatized movements.  The public wants people, personalities, things we all know and feel.  You can’t get much thrill out of Universal Peace.”

“But I believe the public should be taught.”

“Yes, I know.  I get all of you ‘uplift boys’ sooner or later.  Teach them all you like, but learn your trade so thoroughly that they will have no idea that they are being taught.  That is the function of the artist-playwright.  What do you do besides write plays?”

“Just at present I drive a cab,” Jarvis answered simply.

“You don’t say?  How does that happen?”

“I was up against it for money, and I took this to oblige a friend cabby who has rheumatism.”

“’Pon my word!  How long have you been at it?”

“This is my fifth day.”

“Business good?” The manager’s eyes twinkled.  Jarvis smiled gravely.

“I have been wishing it would rain,” he confessed.

“When do you write?”

“At night, now.  But this is only temporarily.”

“What do you think of my idea of another play?”

“The idea is all right, if you will only take it when I’ve done it.”

“How long have you been at this play writing?”

“Three years.”

“How long do you suppose it took me to learn to be a manager?”