He was a hundred feet from the lobby door, and no one was about. The sedan continued to advance at its ominous pace. Then, in the very moment its engines intended to race, a man and woman appeared from the other direction on foot. It was the Sandersons—the fine young couple from Houston who were celebrating their fifth anniversary. They must have just taken an evening stroll among the roses in Municipal Park before returning to dress for dinner.

From across the drive, they gave him a warm Texas greeting.

The sedan’s engines idled.

The Sandersons turned toward the lobby door.

—Wait! Prentice called. Wait a moment, if you would. I was just headed inside myself. Allow me to accompany you.

ON THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON when Prentice arrived in the lobby for tea, he was delighted to find the young woman with the scar awaiting him. Her name was Evelyn Ross, lately of Manhattan. When he formally introduced himself, she sat back with a look of self-recrimination, then simply said:

—Of course.

Now, having lived in Hollywood for nearly half his life, Prentice Symmons was well acquainted with the feigning of recognition. He was neither insulted by it, nor did he take it too closely to his flattered heart. Rather, he completed the charade by smiling and nodding in the fatuous manner of faded celebrity with the full expectation that conversation could then shift toward politics or other forms of weather.

But Miss Evelyn Ross commenced to recall six different films in which he had appeared. (By her own admission, she had been sneaking into movie houses since the age of thirteen!) And to her lasting credit, she recalled his career as one who plays a game of memory, rather than one who has been presented the opportunity to fawn. With the occasional tap of a finger to her lip, she reconstructed scenes that he had stolen; she rehashed outrageous twists of plot; and she rekindled romances that never had any business being doused. So complete was her inventory that they both fell silent once she was done.

Did he miss it? she asked at last. Did he miss the silver screen?

—Pah, he said with a wave of the hand.

What he missed was the stage.