Chaplin watched him go. “What are you doing here?” He imagined that McAdoo and Pickford, in postcoital bliss, had hatched some crazed scheme to steal Edna’s services away.

“I’m attempting a levelheaded solution to this.” She handed Chaplin an envelope.

He did not open it. “I want that girl Zasu back.”

“Charlie, the heads of every studio are meeting in three days. They’re going to forge an alliance with the exhibitors and the owners of about seventy-five percent of the motion-picture houses in the country. They have all their plans in place. In six months, every actor, writer, and director in the business will be at their mercy.” She had said all of this as if reading names from a city directory.

“So you and Bill were just meeting here?” His voice was a full octave higher than usual.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Pickford cried. “Are you completely— What are you talking about?”

He looked down at his large hands, which were playing with the envelope. He opened it, and looked at the few sheets of paper inside, which probably confirmed everything Mary had said. Thinking was very difficult right now. In his mind’s eye, all he could see was Doug waving at him from below his bedroom window, months ago. He wanted to tell Pickford how he hated crowds, how difficult it had been to speak at the Liberty Loan rally, and wouldn’t it be clever to have statues come to life? He wanted to be in an audience watching wonderful things.

“Charlie, how many films left on your contract?”

“A thousand.”

“Please.”

“Sunnyside is number three. I have five more.”

“If your life depended on it, how quickly could you finish those?”

“Never?”

She stamped her foot on the floor, which caused Chaplin to jump. “How soon can you finish your contract?”

“Two years, maybe.”

“That’s too long.”

“These things take time,” he cried. “You can’t rush inspiration.”

“Fuck inspiration,” she said. Chaplin heard a gasp, and looked carefully at Mary, who was still staring at him. Which is when he realized that he had gasped.

“Charlie, how many movies did you make last year?” Her voice was piercing and yet light, like a sparrow’s.

“Three.”

“Three?”

“Two? I’m still working on the third.”

“Last year, Harold Lloyd made thirty-four films.”

“Oh, Harold Lloyd.” He stood and waved his arms. “That third-rate— Lonesome Luke, golly, Mary, I wonder where he got that from? A poor bloke with a mustache and big shoes who gets into trouble, who—”

“Thirty-four films. In one year. And he isn’t Lonesome Luke anymore. He has a new character that isn’t based on you. And you know what? He’s good.”

“He’s not that good.”

“He’s good enough.” She chewed her lip. “Arbuckle. He’s doing features.”

“So what?” Chaplin sputtered. “So— Features? You can’t carry a comedy over six reels. It’s impossible.”