pigrammatic way:

"Hackett, that's fine, but just in there somewhere--you know what I
mean."

As a matter of fact, Hackett, with all his elaborate preparation, had
slipped up on one line, and it was a very essential one. Frohman had
never read "Romeo and Juliet" until he cast this production, yet he
caught the omission with his extraordinary intuition.

Charles was the most indefatigable of workers. At one time, on arriving
in Boston at midnight, he had to stage a new act of "Peter Pan." He
worked over it with carpenters, actors, and electricians until three in
the morning. Then he made an appointment with the acting manager to take
a walk on the Common "in the morning."

The manager took "in the morning" to mean nine o'clock. When he reached
the hotel Frohman was just returning from his walk, and handed the man a
bunch of cables to send, telegrams to acknowledge, and memoranda of
information desired. At ten o'clock Frohman was conducting the rehearsal
of a new comedy by Haddon Chambers, which he finished at four. At five
he was on a train speeding back to New York, where he probably read
manuscripts of plays until two in the morning. This was one of the
typical "C. F." days.

* * *

Occasionally a single detail would fascinate him in a play. "The Waltz
Dream" that he did at the Hicks Theater in London in 1908 was typical.
Miss Gertie Millar, who sang the leading part, had an important song.
Frohman did not like the way she sang it, so he worked on it for two
weeks until it reached the perfection of expression that he desired. But
that song made the play and became the most-talked-of feature in it.
This led him to say:

"I am willing to give as much time to a single song as to the rehearsal
of a whole play."

Frohman had a phrase that he often used with his actors and directors.
It was:

"Never get a 'falling curtain.'"

By this he meant a curtain that did not leave interest or emotion
subdued or declining. He wanted the full sweep of rage, terror, pity,
suspense, or anger alive with the end of the act.

He always said, "A man who sees a play must feel that he is in the
presence of an act." It was his way of putting forth the idea that any
acted effort, no matter how humble, must have the ring of sincerity and
conviction.

Charles had an almost weird instinct for what was right on the stage.
Once at rehearsals he pointed to a heavy candelabrum that stood on a
table.

"I want that thing on the mantelpi