Chaplin glared at Sutherland for about a tenth of a second. He then put his hands in his pockets and walked to the curb. He threw open the door as if entering a surprise party.

“Hullo, my name is Charlie Chaplin,” he said.

There were two women in the backseat, at opposite ends of the bench. He wondered if they sat that way so he could sit between them, but then it was obvious they had left so much room not on his account as much as through a raw, primal disregard for each other. It was atavistic.

He extended his hand toward the girl on the right, the one whom Sutherland didn’t know. She wore a good fur coat and hat, overdressing for a beach party to an extent that was delightfully wrong. She didn’t strike him as dangerous. To begin with, she might have been twelve years old.

“Charlie Chaplin,” he said.

She murmured in response, taking his hand limply, and looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She radiated quiet fear, as if, should she move too quickly, he might eat her.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“Mildred,” she said.

“Charmed, Mildred.” He turned to the woman on the left. “Charlie Chaplin,” he said.

She was too plain to be an actress, though she seemed vaguely familiar. Her clothes were so expensive they looked casual: pointed button boots of imported leather, a white silk skirt, and a braided vest that Chaplin couldn’t recall seeing in any shopwindow.

“I’m sorry?” she said with a hazy air, as if he had pulled her away from fantastic thoughts.

“Charlie Chaplin.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Chapman.”

“Chaplin,” he said. She squinted at him, and he found himself continuing, “C-H-A,” and his lips actually made it as far as forming the “P” before he realized he was looking at the most deadpan face he could remember seeing. It wasn’t a plain face—it was decidedly handsome.

“Never mind,” he said, smiling, “I forget how you spell the rest.”

The car was rolling forward. He sat down on the long bench, in the center, glancing politely at Mildred before fixing the other one with a gaze. Her eyebrows lifted in challenge, by no means intimidated. Now he saw intelligence. She had a dimpled chin, a strong jaw, full lips, and a broad nose, all of which suggested an aggressive bent, and hooded eyes that prevented him from quite reading her mind. She was older than he’d realized, perhaps his age. He wanted to see her standing up, because it was hard to judge her figure, and, further, he wanted to see her walking, because he suspected the sight of her in motion would be rewarding.

For her part—as they had indeed met before—she wished to make Mr. Chaplin dance as much as she could.