Chaplin’s eyes flashed. He had tears in the corners of his eyes. He felt magnificent.

He walked back to the party. There was some disturbance on the patio—a few of the waiters were gathered around someone lying down. There were cries for blankets.

When he was close enough, he saw what had happened: the boy in the toga who had been playing violin in front was sprawled on a makeshift stretcher. Chaplin had forgotten him. His limbs were blue from cold. “Someone get this boy hot tea!” one waiter cried.

This caused Chaplin to walk in a different direction, with his collar up against his cheek.

The new route took Chaplin past the entrance of the house. Where was Eddie Sutherland? The car was still in the parking lot. He walked along the flagstones that surrounded the house, peeking into the kitchen, whose windows were steaming, and then along the farthest wing. Someone had planted rosemary, which was struggling in the salty winds, but there were also young scrub pepper trees and sage and lavender on the leeward side.

Since his overthrow of the “All is vanity” theme, instruments had been located, and amateurish jazz chords were beginning to issue into the night sky. He recognized the insistent beat of the “Calico Stomp,” which anyone who could rub two notes together might play. He, for instance, could play it if anyone asked.

He completed a circuit of the house until he was on the beach again, by the patio, where he saw the band and its dozen or so admirers. There was a dashing fellow he’d never seen before, with a guitar, and another such fellow on clarinet, and Eddie Sutherland was playing the banjo. Chaplin took a step forward—it would be fun to conduct such a band—but then he saw that Frances Marion had a cowbell, and was saying something—he was too far away to hear what—that caused the rest to slap the benches with their palms. She banged on her cowbell, and soon they were back into the “Stomp,” and they even had a singer, in the form of Elliott Dexter.

And Dexter had his own audience. Mildred. She was sitting on a brickwork part of the patio, legs drawn up under her towel. She rubbed her nose—an itch from drying salt water—and then her face returned to a rapturous trance. She had come to the party for Dexter, and now she was in her rightful place, as if nothing had happened with Chaplin in the makeshift forest.

Here it was, the tease of company that is doing well without you. He clasped his hands behind his back, and walked the way he’d come, poking at odd driftwood with the points of his expensive shoes. Rest tomorrow, back to work on Monday.