“Oh.” She didn’t look at him, but continued toward the house. He couldn’t tell if such talk had made her redden.

“Freud says sex is at the root of comedy, too.”

“Hmm.” Her legs, striding across the sand.

“What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She stopped. Then she said, “I don’t know,” again, as if she had considered it long and hard. They were still some distance from the patio, and the ocean had also vanished. It was dark enough for them to see lights from the living room make haloes through the silhouettes of dead trees. He had the urge to crush her. And then rescue her.

“Don’t you like talking to me?” he asked.

“I do. But it’s after dark, and I have to telephone Mother.”

“I’m not telephoning my mother,” he said.

“Why not?”

The exchange had happened so quickly, it only now caught up with him. She was young enough to be calling her mother. And now, in her innocence, she had asked him a question he hadn’t thought of answering.

“Well, she’s in England,” he said, slowly, and he had a vision of an elephant backing up into a doorway, tail-first. A man reaches for the tail, thinking he’s going to pull a garden hose through, and, no, it’s an elephant, three-story haunches pressed all about the frame.

“I bet you can call England. Can you?”

“I can.”

“Why don’t you talk to your mother? Is she one of those awful mothers?”

“No, she’s wonderful,” he said automatically. Then, thinking about it, he added, “She’s quite nice. Everyone loves her. What’s your mother like?”

“She likes sewing. She’s very clever about that.”

“No, I mean—”

“She also likes to sing, and she’s fond of reading the paper aloud over breakfast so we’ll all know what’s going on in the world. She’s good.”

“That’s very nice,” he said. They took a few more steps toward the beach house. There were pairs of lights turning together, automobiles leaving the parking lot, and the motion fluttered among the branches of the dead trees.

“Do you think they’ll let me use the telephone?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“It can be expensive to call from some places.”

“Mr. Goldwyn should pay for whatever you desire.”

“You’re nice, Charlie.” In a few more steps, they would be in sight of the house. Mildred seemed to drag her feet in the dunes. “I have something to tell you. It’s embarrassing.”

“Please tell me.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m nice, remember?” Was she flushed?

“I once entered a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest,” she whispered. She covered her grin.

“Did you? Did you win?”

“I came in fourth.”

“Show me your Charlie Chaplin.”