She indicated the projector. “I had it screened.”

“Oh, God.”

“You’re a genius,” she said, and that should have sounded fine, and then she added, “so you’ll pull through. But the problem is,” she said, and she hesitated, “there are two ways to be a genius. One is to be a genius and hope the world notices. The other way is to show contempt for your audience. They’ll mistake that for genius. If you make them feel bad for not understanding, they’ll figure the fault is their own.”

“All right,” he said, knowing something worse was coming. “I hope you enjoyed the— Well, the farm scenes aren’t inspired, but the museum is obviously, that’s—”

“You have to get rid of that.”

“Pardon?”

“The museum business is all about contempt.”

“No,” he said meekly. “No, I’m not doing it like that. I’m doing it for the world.” With confidence now, he continued, “To combat all the bluestockings from Northumberland and stick up for all the artists who are being eternally censored.”

Until she spoke, he was sure she was going to be wrong. “What artists?”

“Well—”

“No. Really. Who? Who are you defending?” Mary shook her head. “Don’t make this movie. Not like this. Get rid of the museum reel, stay on the farm.”

“But the farm is no good.”

“Then make the next one good. It doesn’t matter.”

“Stop saying that. I don’t know what that means. Stop pointing at that formula. I don’t know what that means, either.” There were tears standing in his eyes. He felt, even though it was clear Pickford was not attacking him, like the stupidest boy in the world. “I just want to go home.”

Quietly but stubbornly, she continued, a nurse making a bitter and frail old man take his pill. “People hear there’s a new Chaplin and they come see it. If they enjoy it, so much the better. But if they don’t, they’ll see the next one. It’s something no one has really understood how to capitalize on yet. That’s what this formula is saying.”

He felt dull and hollow and he could not sit up straight. He was almost proud of how easily Mary had pronounced the word “capitalize.” “Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Does Frances ever talk about me?”

“What? Frances—does Frances—” She regarded him with confusion. “She’s with her fiancé.” Mary’s gaze went around Chaplin’s face as if she were sorting out a map, finding north. “What happened between you two?”

It was a strange feeling, having Pickford’s best and only friendship in the palm of his hand. “Nothing,” he said.

“What kind of nothing?”

“I … just… thought she was amusing.”