—For the viewer, Evelyn—for the sales girl or senator, for the rogue or Rothschild—the cinema is the ultimate entertainment. It is an overflowing font of romance and danger. But for the performer, Evelyn, the romance and danger reside on the stage. When shooting a close-up, the movie camera must have you to itself. Thus, when you perform the most charged of cinematic scenes, you are likely to deliver your lines alone. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear . . . Or so you proclaim to the cold, black eye of the camera before being excused to your dressing room, so that Juliet can implore in your absence that you Swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon . . . Wherefore art thou Romeo, indeed!

Prentice paused briefly to serve the tea before it over-steeped.

—But on stage, my dear, on stage it is in the very interstice between the full-blooded physical forms of the actor and actress that the spark is struck. It is in that space between two gazes which search each other out, between two fingertips which nearly touch . . . And danger? For the actor, every dram of it is in the theater. Not because of crocodiles and sabers, you understand, but because the edge of the stage is a precipice! For there are no takes in the theater, Evelyn; no second chances. One false move, and the actor plummets through the pitch toward the craggy bottom of his own self-indictments.

Her appreciation for his argument almost instinctual, Evelyn’s cheeks betrayed a rosy flush.

—Then why, she asked almost breathlessly, why did you stop acting?

—You’re sweet, my dear.

But in her perplexity, she seemed genuine. Genuine!

—My rotundity, he explained.

And before she could express her shock (or God forbid, her sympathy), he raised a stalling hand.

—Don’t pity me for it. Are there elements of stardom that I miss? Why, there are elements of boarding school that I miss. There are elements of my most catastrophic romances that I miss. So let us agree, that missing is not at the heart of the matter.

AT THE TOLL OF one in the morning, the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel had been empty for almost an hour. There were no more guests checking in; no gilded affairs assembling or dispersing. Through the doors of the bar drifted the tinkling of piano keys at the hands of a capable straggler who had presumably been thrown from his apartment and who now finally fell asleep, having made the G Major 7 with his weary head. While behind the desk, the night clerk Michael stood alone, fending off sleep.

Under the circumstances, it was quite natural for him to welcome a chance to chat.