Mildred freed her hair from her swim cap and shook her head. Her hair was a honey blond, in loose waves. She ran her hands through it and shook it again. “All right,” Chaplin said.

As McAdoo cleared his throat, Chaplin realized Mildred couldn’t see him. She wasn’t posing or performing. She moved her fur coat and her dress to the bed, and then, with her back to the window, peeled her swim-suit off one shoulder, then the other. She drew her towel across her shoulders, wiping away sand, and then tossed the towel to the floor.

McAdoo outlined a plan, a coast-to-coast Liberty Loan Drive of Hollywood stars appearing in city squares—Wall Street! LaSalle! the French Quarter! on the steps of the Capitol!—envisioning unparalleled crowds of millions met by marching bands, soldiers, and the new royalty of cinema. They began to fade into insubstantial promises that Chaplin nonetheless begged to continue, sounds of seduction and love. He could see Mildred so clearly, with such focus, it was as if an iris had opened up around her. She put her hands behind her head. She arched her back. He could hardly breathe when he realized what she was doing. She parted her knees, settling the weight, heel to heel. She was remembering, like a child, and, like a child, playing it through again, and how exactly was that distinguishable from acting? It was, it wasn’t.

In a moment, she would turn around. She would have to, for her dress was on the bed, and when she turned, Chaplin would see all of her, nude. A gift she didn’t know she was giving. McAdoo was no longer speaking. He had finished his proposal a few seconds before, and was awaiting Chaplin’s response. McAdoo’s eyes were excited, dangerous with ambition. And, not so far away, Mildred was lowering her arms. She began to turn, the electric illumination of the room lending the leading edge of her skin a brilliant glow.

Serial

The Winking Idol

In a word, the whole of humanity seen from the angles of the cosmic imagination are Charlie Chaplins.

—Charlie Chaplin

1

How to pay for a war?

Secretary McAdoo was mild, dreamy, curious, polite, patient, and, as Chaplin had decided, pleasant. His exclamations to Chaplin—“Gee” and “Gosh”—were as controversial speech as he allowed himself. He loved to dance, even when there was a war on, for which he was criticized not one whit, for he danced only with his wife, and his wife was Eleanor Wilson, the president’s daughter. And who but a cautious, polite, political man would marry the president’s daughter?

He loved her, but with expedience rather than passion. Passion he saved for something else: money. Loved not with avarice, but with sincere appreciation.