ward he was shy of going back lest they should
apologize.

At one time he had several theaters here and was renting others, the
while he had I know not how many in America; he was not always sure how
many himself. Latterly the great competition at home left him no time to
look after more than one in London. But only one anywhere seemed a
little absurd to him. He once contemplated having a few theaters in
Paris, but on discovering that French law forbids your having more than
one he gave up the scheme in disgust.

A sense of humor sat with him through every vicissitude like a faithful
consort.

"How is it going?" a French author cabled to him on the first night of a
new play.

"It has gone," he genially cabled back.

Of a Scotch play of my own that he was about to produce in New York, I
asked him what the Scotch would be like.

"You wouldn't know it was Scotch," he replied, "but the American public
will know."

He was very dogged. I had only one quarrel with him, but it lasted all
the sixteen years I knew him. He wanted me to be a playwright and I
wanted to be a novelist. All those years I fought him on that. He always
won, but not because of his doggedness; only because he was so lovable
that one had to do as he wanted. He also threatened, if I stopped, to
reproduce the old plays and print my name in large electric letters over
the entrance of the theater.

* * *

A very distinguished actress under his management wanted to produce a
play of mine of which he had no high opinion. He was in despair, as he
had something much better for her. She was obdurate. He came to me for
help, said nothing could move her unless I could. Would not I tell her
what a bad play it was and how poor her part was and how much better the
other parts were and how absolutely it fell to pieces after the first
act? Of course I did as I was bid, and I argued with the woman for
hours, and finally got her round, the while he sat cross-legged, after
his fashion, on a deep chair and implored me with his eyes to do my
worst. It happened long ago, and I was so obsessed with the desire to
please him that the humor of the situation strikes me only now.

For money he did not care at all; it was to him but pieces of paper with
which he could make practical the enterprises that teemed in his brain.
They were all enterprises of the theater. Having once seen a theater, he
never afterward saw anything else except sites for theaters. This
passion beg