He closed the book, and regarded the crowd like a displeased schoolmaster. Finally, someone—it was Mildred—clapped enthusiastically, and many others did so, quickly disbanding, threatened that he might open his book and read more.

“Charlie!”

He was already smiling when he turned to see a face he half recognized. He thought of boats when he saw her.

“It’s Katie O’Dell!”

“Yes, hello, Katie.” He still didn’t remember her. She stood with a tall, rawboned, silenced girl, whom she introduced, but whose name he did not catch.

“Charlie directed me in The Immigrant,” Katie was saying.

He recalled. She had been in the dock scene, just to the left of him when the immigration officials tied the lasso around the huddled masses. She had taken direction well, the camera treated her exactly right, and during the lunch breaks she had talked so much he had taken his sandwiches to the car.

“Charlie is such a good director!” Katie made chopping motions with her hand as she said it. Her friend excused herself to find more to drink, and Katie said, “She’s nervous.”

“I understand. Do you know where I might find tea?”

“There’s a bar on the beach, and they have coffee, which is fantastic. Just fantastic,” she repeated. “Charlie!”

“Katie?”

“What are you working on now, Charlie?”

“Oh—dogs.”

“No, what are you working on? What film?”

Her voice was like a trumpet. He was aware that he was standing in the midst of a group, that there should be overlapping conversations, music, the rhythm of the ocean and the breeze, perhaps the actor beginning to declaim again. In fact, it was cold enough that the whole patio should be empty. But it felt as if the question of what he was working on had brought a dead silence, that the brass of the trumpet had belonged to Gabriel, and the world was awaiting the voice of judgment.

“It’s about dogs. It’s called I Should Worry.”

Her face fell. “It only has dogs in it?”

He could kiss her. “Yes. No humans. It’s an experiment. I believe it will be a smashing success.”

“Okay. Sure.” Her friend chose that moment to return, which prolonged an awkward silence that Chaplin enjoyed. Katie had given him a wonderful excuse to keep actors and actresses at bay, and he wanted to thank her. “And,” he said, “not that you asked, but of course I will always keep you in mind. For other kinds of parts.” He touched her lightly on the elbow, and from his eyes projected a pure, happy, open, avuncular concern.

“Excuse me?” she said. She cocked her head, shifted her glance to her friend, and then to the fingertips on her elbow. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means … just…” He couldn’t for the life of him explain it in words different from those he had used. What else could it mean?