“You see? You have two fans here, Mildred, side by side.”

“And we agree on nothing else so far, except you.”

“We might agree on other things,” Chaplin said. “You could start by telling me how you spell your name, and I could tell you if you’re doing it correctly.”

“Why would you remember this time?”

This time? He had met her before. But he refused to feel bad about being forgetful; he met many people. “Perhaps I remember and I’m just acting.”

“You’re not that good an actor,” she said. “Mildred, don’t tell Mr. Chapman who I am.”

“Do you know her name, Mildred?”

“She introduced herself when she got in.”

“Hmm. Did she do it like this?” He put his head back haughtily, as if he were looking down into a courtyard filled with his vassals. He enunciated entirely through his nose, as if he were a pelican. “‘How d’ye do, Mildred? I am the Baroness X. Of the Windsor Xes.’ No, I know, ‘the Artcraft Xes.’ Was it like that?”

Mildred laughed. “No. She’s nice.”

“She is?”

“She just said, “Hi, I’m Fran—”

“Ah, Mildred, no.” It was Chaplin saying this. “We don’t want to spoil her fun. But it’s too late; I know for certain now—your name is Frank.”

“It should be.”

She spoke confidently, like a woman who earned her own money. Franny? She was not a Franny. He did not remember her name because now sex was involved, and this always drowned his mind like a kitten in a sack. Her name was Frances Marion, and she wrote scenarios for a living. She was also bright and egotistical enough to believe he remembered her and was just teasing her by pretending not to know who she was.

“Mildred,” Frances said, “how do you know Mr. Goldwyn?”

“I don’t really know him,” she replied. “I have a friend who lives at his house.”

At this, Frances leaned forward, truly interested for the first time. “Are you friends with Mr. Moore?”

Mildred shook her head. “Mr. Dexter.”

Moore? Dexter? For Chaplin, it was like seeing the beginnings of an equation on the blackboard, and having the solution in a mad blur. “Oh, we’re going to that house.”

“Yes?” Frances asked.

“I thought we were going to Goldwyn’s.”

“Goldwyn is east. He rented it to them.”

He had heard that four actors—Eddie Sutherland, Elliott Dexter, Owen Moore, and Jack Pickford—had taken the unusual step of all renting a house by the beach. They had united this way somewhat accidentally, to escape various Hollywood entanglements, but the result, to their surprise, was a parade of actresses who tended to visit while wearing swimming costumes. Now more clumps of handsome young men were taking to beach life in hopes of catching their spill-off.

“So Goldwyn isn’t there?”

“No, I believe he sent his regrets. Or something.”