Chaplin cowered, his eyes the size of lightbulbs; he shook his head, mouthing “no, No, NO!,” arms up to protect himself, and yet, in that gesture, the hands magically framed what had become through sheer willpower an angelic face. “But wait,” he said. “The hero approaches.”

He turned to Mildred and, with an instructional nod of the head, invited her to be the hero. She was game, but slow to decide how to be a hero. She settled on sticking her jaw out.

Chaplin faced forward so both women could see him beam. Previously unknown dimples grew in his cheeks. He clasped his hands together and shook his head, fluffing the air around it to indicate the settling of curls. “Goodness,” he declared, “is—good.”

The backseat of the car rocked with laughter, and Chaplin grinned, sizing up both women to ensure that they were actually having a good time and not just being polite.

Frances cried out, “Mr. Chaplin, that does sound like her, doesn’t it?”

“Goodness is good,” he repeated.

“And badness?” she asked.

“Terribly bad,” he declared with the same vapid intent.

“What awful scenarios she has,” she laughed, wiping at the edges of her eyes.

“Oh, go ahead, blame the scenario writer,” he said. “That’s the easy way out. Mary knows what Mary does.”

“I’ve read that she’s changing,” Mildred said.

“She’s discovered patriotism.” Chaplin nodded. “She’s now the face of the Red Cross, which is noble. In the sense of being the kind of nobility that gets its face stamped on medals. She wants to sell the war. Joanne Enlists.” He rolled up his trouser leg and flexed it, winking slyly. “Yoo-hoo, if you enlist, I’ll show you the other leg.”

Now he could hear two types of laughter. Mildred was turning red, holding her hand over her mouth, as if shocked someone could say such a thing about Mary Pickford. Frances was tilting her head back slightly, regarding Chaplin with distant pleasure.

When all was quiet, she said, “By the by, it’s Johanna Enlists, not Joanne. ”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes.”

Chaplin had nuances to his Pickford imitation, and had looked forward to guiding the conversation so that he could do her being determined or, when they got out of the car, dancing with joy.

“Johanna? Are you sure about that?” he asked.

“Reasonably sure.”

“I shall make note of it when I do Mary Pickford imitations in the future, Frank.”

She chuckled, satisfied they’d been playing the same game.