The idea that he might be attracted to someone who wrote for Pickford was out of the question. So, without benefit of important clues (such as having met her, knowing her name and her occupation), he tried to construct her relationship with Pickford. A friend? No, he was sure no one had successfully scurried through the maternal petticoats of that looming Argus, Charlotte Pickford. Still, he shouldn’t have talked about Mary. Mildred was too well behaved to cause him trouble. If Frank was an actress, however, such a thing was like money in her pocket.

“How far away is the beach, do you think?” He asked this looking straight ahead, but only Mildred responded, pulling up the shade and looking out the window.

“I think we’re in Beverly Hills,” she said. “It’s definitely Beverly Hills.”

“Is it?”

“Do you see where the beanfield ends? They’ve put up a shop on the corner. Guess what? That gown in the window? It’s from Paris. So is the one next to it. You can tell.” She watched him in case he did anything funny (he didn’t) and then returned to looking out the window.

“Frank,” Chaplin finally said, turning right. “You made quite a good villain.”

“Thank you.”

He asked, as if it meant nothing, “Why aren’t you an actress?”

“I was, for a while. I couldn’t take it seriously.”

This pleased him. “And what do you take seriously?”

“Many things. I’m going to France soon.”

This caused Mildred to tear away from the window. She regarded her fellow woman with awe. “For the clothing?”

“No, Mildred. I’m going because of the war.” This was said in kindness. “I’m very unsure of the war,” she said.

Chaplin asked, “How so?”

“Well, as I recall, we voted for Mr. Wilson because he’d kept us out of the war, and then, about a week later, we were fighting it anyway. We were against it, and now we’re for it.”

“Ah—” said Chaplin, for he had a theory on propaganda.

“And I’m not being cynical. We’re there because things genuinely changed.”

“And because certain people want us there,” he said.

“Yes. And it’s making certain people very rich, which is a whole extra level of horror. I feel I should see France to understand why we’re there, what it’s doing to us, and so on.”

Mildred nodded, returning to looking out the window, where a storefront beckoned.

Chaplin said, “I’m very impressed. Are you in the Red Cross, or will you be a Hello Girl, or—”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been meeting with Hearst’s people. I might write articles for the paper about women in the war.”

“Then you’ll be wearing your journalist’s hat?” he said, thinking of the magazines he would need Carlyle Robinson to call to suppress everything he had said about Mary Pickford.