“I suppose I’ll have to guess how you spell the rest of your name,” she said, sounding disappointed.

“I’d like to hear you guess.”

“Are there exclamation points involved?”

“I’m sure there are.”

“I loathe exclamation points.” She looked out the window. The car pulled into the intersection and was turning left, causing a rumble over trolley tracks that made all riding within brace themselves. There were shades over the windows, and they were drawn for privacy’s sake. It made traveling a bit of a mystery. Chaplin had been to Santa Monica many times but was unsure how one actually drove there, except in a very, very, very long straight line through the orchards and fields separating the many fiefdoms, and he wondered whether Sutherland knew where he was going. But he couldn’t ask. There was a pane of glass between Sutherland and his passengers. Which gave Chaplin the women to himself.

“Mildred,” he said. “Where have I seen you before?” He hadn’t actually seen her, but it was always an excellent question to ask.

“Mother works for Ince,” she said, with a slight lisp. “And before that, Triangle. She’s a costumer. You’ve come by when you were building your studio.”

“Ah. And you help her?”

“No. I act.” She shrugged.

“How interesting.”

“Just the sister roles, mostly”—each “s” a tender sibilant. It was impossible to tell how old she really was. Sixteen? She was one of a growing type, the ingénue, and a particularly attractive example, really. Her eyes looked ready to spill over with tears at any minute, her skin awaiting the brush of a fingertip, as if the gentlest touch would cause her to rise in goosebumps. Ingénues tended to lisp.

“Mildred was in Intolerance,” the other woman said. “We were just talking about that before you came in.”

“Lord, there isn’t a single person in the telephone book who wasn’t in Intolerance.” Chaplin chuckled, regretting it instantly. “It’s just that, well, Griffith’s tropes have been dusty lately.” There was no response, so he hurried along. “I’m sure you had quite a part, Mildred,” he added, “not stuck off at the side, playing third zither during the Babylonian orgy. What part did you play?”

Mildred stared at him. Her lower lip, which was full and lovely, began to tremble. “I was in the Babylonian orgy scene. I stood in a fountain.”

“She’s also done other work.” This was said to be helpful. He could read in the older woman’s eyes the true desire to avoid the sight of an ingénue crying.

“What else have you done, Mildred?”

“I was in the Oz pictures. Dorothy in the first, then Button-Bright. In The Magic Cloak of Oz, I was Fluff. But that was several years ago,” she finished, eyes rimmed with tears.

“You were quite fine in those,” Chaplin said, looking sideways to invite agreement.

“I thought she was splendid.”