Mrs. Harris was much surprised by the report, she said, and added that her daughter was only seventeen years of age and too young to think of marrying. Chaplin, currently lensing his next comedy riot, Camouflage, was unavailable for comment, but sources at the studio scoff at the reports. “Charlie is working sixteen hour days, his eye is on the money, and he has no time for romance. People are eager to see him married, but they shall have to wait.”

An hour after reading this, Chaplin was sputtering in front of Carlyle Robinson. “Why is this in the papers?”

It was late in the morning, and the slightest motion made Chaplin perspire. The effort of facing Robinson was heroic. Robinson was cool, as if he had never sweated in his life. “The Examiner had a much more salacious story, which they squashed for the exclusive.”

“What exclusive?”

“That would be the unnamed source telling them you had no time for romance.”

“Who said that to them?”

“I did. I mentioned money so it would sound like Syd.”

Chaplin was standing in the doorway of Robinson’s office, which was by the studio entryway, and which was only large enough for a desk, on top of which the local newspapers were heaped. He was torn between anger and admiration. “Why Syd?”

“People expect that if it’s your brother he is keeping you in line.”

“I don’t need to be kept in line.”

“Are you going to marry her?”

“Of course not.”

“Because, if you do, you should tell me first,” Robinson said, calmly. As ever, he had not a hair out of place, and Chaplin could not tell how he felt about anything. But the suspension of judgment had the reverse effect of making Chaplin feel highly judged, as if there were something he was doing that required Robinson to stand back and not express opinions on.

“Marrying means to grasp blindfolded into a sack, hoping to find an eel out of an assembly of snakes,” Chaplin said, raising his eyebrows.

“That’s fine. Always thought Mr. Schopenhauer had something there,” Robinson said with a tight, unimpressed, and still somehow judgmental-without-being-judgmental smile.

Chastened (who had actually read Schopenhauer?), Chaplin noticed Robinson tapping his pencil on his legal pad. “Yes?”

“The article was important. I placed it to establish one fact.” Robinson tilted his head slightly, as if suggesting that Chaplin, a genius, should be able to determine this for himself.

Chaplin remembered that everyone took pride in his own work. “We’re not getting married?”

“No. I’ve noticed that everyone denies they’re getting married. Even married people. Just saying it aloud like this, it gets people thinking you’re lying. So: no.”

Chaplin scanned the article again. “That I’m working?”

“No.” Robinson tapped his pencil quickly on his pad. “The article is there for one reason only. It establishes beyond the shadow of a doubt that Miss Harris is seventeen years old.”