he made or lost a fortune each time.

Frohman was happy in London. He liked the soft, gray tones of the somber
city. "It's so restful," he always said. Even the "bobbie" delighted
him. He would watch the stolid policeman from the curb and say,
admiringly: "He is wonderful; he raises his hand and all London stops."
He was greatly interested in the traffic regulations.

Although he had elaborate offices, his real London headquarters were in
the Savoy Hotel. Here, in the same suite that he had year after year,
and where he was known to all employees from manager to page, he
literally sat enthroned, for his favorite fashion was to curl up on a
settee with his feet doubled under him. More than one visitor who saw
him thus ensconced called him a "beaming Buddha."

From his informal eminence he ruled his world. Around him assembled the
Knights of the Dramatic Round Table. Wherever Frohman sat became the
unofficial capitol of a large part of the English-speaking stage. In
those Savoy rooms there was made much significant theatrical history. To
the little American came Barrie, Pinero, Chambers, Jones, Sutro,
Maugham, Morton, with their plays; Alexander, Tree, Maude, Hicks,
Barker, Bouchier, with their projects.

Like Charles Lamb, Frohman loved to ramble about London. Often he would
stop in the midst of his work, hail a taxi, and go for a drive in the
green parks. The Zoological Gardens always delighted him. He frequently
stopped to watch the animals. The English countryside always lured him,
especially the long green hedges, which held a peculiar fascination. He
walked considerably in the country and in town, and he took great
delight in peering in shop windows.

[Illustration: _JAMES M. BARRIE_]

In London, as in New York, the theater was his life and inspiration.
Almost without exception he went to a performance of some kind every
evening. At most of the London theaters he was always given the royal
box whenever possible. He liked the atmosphere of the British
playhouse. He always said it was more like a drawing-room than a place
of amusement.

* * *

To Charles, London meant J. M. Barrie, and to be with the man who wrote
"Peter Pan" was one of his supreme delights. The devotion between these
two men of such widely differing temperaments constitutes one of the
really great friendships of modern times. Character of an unusual kind,
on both sides, was essential to such a communion of interest and
affection. Both poss