McAdoo had gone to look for his stars, to thank them, and to ask if they would be available for the Fourth Liberty Loan campaign, which he projected would be necessary in November. But he could not find Chaplin.

This was because, the moment his feet left the platform, Chaplin kept walking. He had spotted an alleyway that led to Mission Street, where he turned left and walked, hat pulled down, for several long blocks. He was charged with the kind of energy he always felt when leaving the stage, a clotted feeling, a combatant escalation and detumescence.

He remembered the face of the young soldier. He wished he could have done it all differently. He wanted not to sell anything but to make that nameless boy feel better. He wanted to volunteer to join the infantry. He imagined close-order drills with a Springfield, camouflage training, standing in a trench and firing off rounds. He wanted to protect this young man. “You only need your gas mask when someone sends you Limburger,” he thought. “Just follow me.”

He halted in his tracks, and realized he needed to lean against the nearest building to keep from falling over. He felt sick. He wasn’t going to join the army. Nothing he could do would make anyone feel better, ever.

The rendezvous spot was six blocks away, at an apartment he knew from his days at Niles Canyon. He had met Edna here, the day he’d made her his leading lady. As he approached, he paused to tie his shoes—they didn’t need it—to look around and see if he was being followed. Mary Pickford must not know, and the thought of her judging him gave him a feeling of ill joy.

It was one floor up, in a clapboard place built before the Earthquake, whitewashed and sturdy. Inside was a sitting room, furnished anonymously, with care and thrift, and a large brass bed that was the flat’s only indulgence. He had arranged this meeting so carefully, after weeks of slow motions, that he was afraid it would slip away.

Outside the door, tacked to the wall, there was a single poppy, the sign that she was there. Knowing her had changed his work already, and knowing him had, she told him, made her a finer person. She was a challenge to his autonomy, and when he could bear to touch her (knowing he was going to touch her was almost painful, an ache at the base of the throat), he was seized by her essential decency and sweetness. She was infinitely worth knowing, and she would make him walk taller.

They hadn’t yet made love. Today would be the first time.

He knocked, twice, then knocked again, twice.