With his astonishing intuition Frohman divined that the author was making no progress, so he sent her a note asking her to come to town, and adding, "I have something to show you." Miss Mayo entered the office at the Empire determined to throw herself upon the managerial mercy and beg to be excused from the commission. But before she could say a word Frohman said, cheerily: "I've found the right title for our play." Then he rang a bell, and a boy appeared holding a tightly rolled poster in his hand. At a signal he unfolded it, and the astonished playwright beheld these words in large red and white letters: _Charles Frohman_ _Presents_ _I DIDN'T WANT TO DO IT_ _A Farce in Three Acts_ _By Margaret Mayo_ Of course the usual thing happened. No one could resist such an attack. Miss Mayo went back to the country without protest and she finished the play. It was destined, however, to be produced by some other hand than Frohman's. * * * Frohman always sought seclusion when he wanted to work out the plans for a production. He sometimes went to extreme lengths to achieve aloofness. An incident related by Goodwin will illustrate this. During the run of "Nathan Hale" in New York Goodwin entered his dressing-room one night, turned on the electric light, and was amazed to see Charles sitting huddled up in a corner. "What are you doing here, Charley?" asked Goodwin. "I am casting a new play, and came here to get some inspiration. Good night," was the reply. With that he walked out. * * * There was one great secret in Charles Frohman's life. It is natural that it should center about the writing of a play; it is natural, too, that this most intimate of incidents in the career of the great manager should be told by his devoted friend and colleague of many years, Paul Potter. Here it is as set down by Mr. Potter: We had hired a rickety cab at the Place Saint-Francois in Lausanne, and had driven along the lake of Geneva to Morges, where, sitting on the terrace of the Hotel du Mont Blanc, we were watching the shore of Savoy across the lake, and the gray old villages of Thonon and Evian, and the mountains, rising ridge upon ridge, behind them. And Frohman, being in lyric mood, fell to quoting "The Blue Hills Far Away," for Owen Meredith's song was one of the few bits of verse that clung in his memory. "Odd," said he, relapsing into prose, "that a chap should climb hill after hill, thinking he had reached his goal, and should forever find the blue hills farther and farther away." While he was ruminating the clouds lifted, and there, in a gap of the hills, was the crest of Mont Blanc, with its image of Napoleon lying asleep in the snow. I have seen Frohman in most of the critical moments of his life, but I never saw him utterly awe-stricken till then. "Gee," said he, at length, "what a mountain to climb!" "It is sixty miles away," I ventured to suggest.