The table was set for one. Overhead, a single hanging light wreathed in wrought iron gave a faint glow. The chair was wooden, with carved arms, like a throne. Chaplin put the napkin in his lap, poured himself a glass of water, and took up his utensils in silence. The dinner table half vanished in gloom, the other end perhaps lost over the horizon line. There was a small bowl of salad—lettuce and tomatoes—and on the main plate, beside the roast beef, were two dinner rolls. He stuck his dinner fork in one and salad fork in the other, and had them do a little dance, while his face feigned lack of interest.

There was a large moon casting crooked and scattering beams through the leaded-glass window beside him. Music. His mother was playing songs on the Victrola in her bedroom: “’E Dunno Where ’E Are” and then “Opportunity.” And then the first, again, and the second. Once, when “Opportunity” had been finished for several long moments, he thought she might have gone to sleep, but then he could hear, through her door and down the stairs, her voice reaching him. “Miss Lily Harley sings ‘Opportunity,’” and then the song began again. He could hear the cobblestonelike clatter of thick leather soles on her floor, and he knew she had rolled up the rugs and was dancing.

He went to the garden and stood in the moonlight. He still didn’t know which ones were marigolds and which were mignonettes.

In his bedroom he could hear tiny squeaking sounds within the long shadows cast by the moon. The mouse was in a cage by Mildred’s side of the bed, burying itself happily in wood shavings. Mildred was awake, knees drawn up. When Chaplin put his hand on her breast, which now filled his hand, she neither blocked him with her elbow nor arched back her shoulder to give him better access.

“Hello,” she whispered.

“Hello.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course.” She was wearing his pajamas, which meant he was familiar with the buttons. He ran his hands lightly over the bow of her stomach, glancing at her eyes, which were looking pensively at the moonlight.

It caused him to hesitate. “What?”

Mildred shook her head. But she was thinking something. “She’s your mother,” she finally said. She said it as if answering a question.

“I know. She’s here,” he said, kissing her ear.

“No, I mean”—she touched his cheek—“you’re being sweet. No, I mean something different.” She said it with two syllables instead of three. “Diffrunt.” The Gishes said it the same way. He realized that a year ago, two years, there had been the birth of a Hollywood accent. “When the maid turned down her bed, she found bread under her pillow.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”