“Well,” Chaplin said, for it was of course Chaplin, “I know, it’s embarrassing, but I have reasons….” Which was true: he wanted to see whether he had made the list of Twelve Immortals.

“You don’t need other reasons,” Lee said. “In spite of the gent on the cover, it’s a good magazine.”

Chaplin performed, overriding a personal aversion to such things, a perfect double take. He wasn’t being recognized—he was being insulted. He had been hiding in his hotel room most of the day, and here was the first conversation he’d had. He rolled the magazine up in his fist, and his voice came out Plains-state flat American. “Have you heard terrible things about Chaplin?”

“Only what everyone else has.” Lee paid his dime and took his magazine.

“I’ve heard he’s a slacker,” Chaplin said.

“He’s too important to draft,” Lee responded. He had become quite firm about this. “Some men are gifted that way.”

“I hear he gets paid for doing nothing.”

“I just saw the new Chaplin. If that’s doing nothing, sign me up.”

Chaplin had, rising in him, a list of accusations. He so wanted to spell out all his shortcomings that they burbled on the tongue. I hear he didn’t pay his taxes. I hear he agreed to sell the war. He travels by solid-gold motorcar from town to town, stealing other men’s ideas and leaving them gravel in their place, and when he’s hungry he reaches into a sack of half-digested children that he drags behind him. Instead, he asked, “The new Chaplin? And you liked it?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

It dawned on Lee that he had never been asked his opinion before. When he had talked about movies, no one had drawn him out. He didn’t want to be an idiot in his first conversation with a stranger in San Francisco, particularly one who so smelled of success. “Well, it’s fuller than most. Have you seen the last Chaplins?”

“I’ve seen a few.”

“This one feels fuller.”

Chaplin waited, arms folded, for more analysis. “Fuller.”

“That’s exactly it.” Lee smiled. “It appeals to every emotion. It’s very sentimental.”

Chaplin wanted to take this tall, handsome man (he hadn’t noticed before how handsome he was) out for dinner and to divine his thoughts on all things, not just himself, but politics and industry and the mysteries of creativity. “When you consider it as a whole, is it as good as he is, or just good parts that—”

“Oh, I know,” Lee said with the snap of inspiration. “He’s almost as good as Pickford like that. Suddenly.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s like he’s been watching Pickford films and has taken something of that mysterious way she has.”

“Pickford?”

“She always does something to put you on her side, like— Oh! Say, didn’t she have a dog in Stella Maris?”