Later, Chaplin walked across the courtyard, studiously examining the grass and the flower beds, for there were two dozen day players milling around the stage (“@ 10/day,” as per Alf’s invoices, which were beginning to menace his desk). No one knew if it was a museum day or a farm day or something else, so they were all in their street clothes. When Chaplin breezed past, he gave an awkward smile their way and they waved back, unsure if they should be seen playing cards or if they were supposed to be rehearsing, so they settled for looking alert.

In his office, Chaplin called the Los Angeles Athletic Club. When Hans, the operator, answered, tears stood out in Chaplin’s eyes. “Hello, Hans. It’s Charlie.”

“Mr. Chaplin!”

Chaplin hadn’t meant to have any sort of reaction, but he began asking questions: How was Hans’s sister? Did they ever take that trip to Pennsylvania? How was the Club these days? Not so good with the Drys? Ah well. And Chaplin answered Hans’s questions: Yes, he was enjoying being married, Mildred was wonderful, and living in a large house was quite a change. And what was that? Oh, yes, he still played his violin.

“Well, Hans, I’m actually calling for Bill McAdoo.”

“Ah, what a nice man he is.”

“That, too. Yes. Take care.”

Immediately after the war had ended, McAdoo had resigned from the Liberty Loan Committee, and he was tinkering with leaving his other government jobs behind. Now he took Chaplin’s call with his usual good spirits, and they discussed, as always, the clement weather, and Chaplin asked, “Bill, has there been any word?”

“Word?”

Operators could be listening in. There were no secrets in Hollywood. “The Big Store.”

“That? It’s been quiet,” McAdoo answered.

“Too quiet?”

“Too quiet?” He laughed. “How is something ‘too quiet’?”

Chaplin’s shoulders dropped. If McAdoo wasn’t worried, then he shouldn’t worry, either.

“I think there are developments, and I think we aren’t hearing about them,” McAdoo continued.

After he put the phone back on its cradle, Chaplin was so nervous he had his septet play Brahms, and at the end he asked them to add a harpist and a piano.

A few days later, the studio feeling like an empty circus tent with Syd gone, Chaplin received a telegram from First National. Friendly, professional, the model of support, it was an inquiry as to his progress into the untitled (as far as they knew) Chaplin production number three of his contract with them. A second telegram was sent to Accounting, asking what expenses had so far been incurred.

That afternoon, Chaplin brought Doug to the screening room.

“This is your pastoral?” Doug asked.