Stepping on him with one foot and then raising his arms in victory, Fairbanks grabbed a megaphone and led a rousing chorus of “Over There” (even he knew all the words). As Fairbanks and Hart stood onstage considering whether to ad-lib and toss the Kaiser into the water tank behind him (they decided not to), McAdoo was watching them, feeling nostalgia for an event that had not yet even finished.

This left Pickford and Chaplin together, alone.

“No,” Chaplin was saying. “Stop speaking to me like that.”

Pickford narrowed her eyes. “The timing was amazing.”

“I can’t help that. I was taking a walk. I didn’t even know she was here.”

“Where did you walk?”

“I didn’t— Oh, all right. The box office. I wanted to see how the new one is doing.”

“Oh.” Mary glared at him. She was not going to be distracted.

“It’s breaking records, apparently,” he said.

“I know you two have a history,” she said. But that was roughly all she knew.

“Mary, have they assigned you one of those assistants?”

“An assistant?”

“A person who gets you things? If not, you can borrow mine and have him buy you a coffee can full of worms and a nice rod and reel, and have yourself a nice fishing trip.”

“Bill McAdoo said you were taking a nap.”

“Well, he doesn’t know where I go any more than Owen knows where you are. Mary.”

She glowed red, which showed exactly how hard Chaplin had slapped. When she broke their eye contact and looked to the ground, he began to feel a creeping sense of guilt. “Mary.” The words “I apologize” almost came to his lips. “Oh, look, nothing has happened.” And then, with full steam, “There’s nothing I’d like better than to say I was banging your best friend, if only because of how much that would annoy you.”

This succeeded in getting her attention. He felt better for having said it. He felt as if the animosity between them might be on its way to melting, a puddle and pool of warm feeling. Was she about to blaze with a smile?

“Charlie,” she said, carefully, “you are the most miserable little son of a bitch I’ve ever met. If it weren’t worth fifty thousand dollars every time I spit, I’d spit on you.”

He stammered, “I—I wouldn’t let you spit on me if I were on fire.”

“I hope you catch fire. And syphilis.”

“Then I’d be one of the Pickfords.”

“Oh, you could still be a Chaplin.”