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coffee?”
    “Yes, I would.”
    “All right, then. Why don’t you go out into the kitchen and make it? It’s out there somewhere. The kitchen. And there should be some coffee in it.” He looked down at his nakedness and suddenly became a coy ingénue. “Would you excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable?” He minced off and up the stairs.
    I found the kitchen. It was a mess, but I managed to prepare coffee. I put everything onto a tray and carried it out to the sitting room.
    Barrymore sat there, beautifully dressed in slacks, slippers, a smoking jacket, and an ascot, smoking and reading the morning newspaper. He seemed surprised to see me, but said, “Oh, coffee. Fine. Put it right down there.”
    I felt as though I were about to be tipped.
    I poured coffee for both of us and began. “This is a great honor, Mr. Barrymore.”
    “I should think it would be. Are you the director of this thing we’re supposed to talk about?”
    “Yes, sir, I am.”
    “Oh, I thought you might be his grandson working for him as his messenger boy.”
    “No,” I said. “I’d like to direct this picture. That is, if you’ll star in it. If you’ll play the lead.”
    “The lead ?” he asked, sharply. I could almost see his ears prick up. “May I ask how many other leads there are in this opera?”
    “None,” I said.
    “None?” he echoed, except that in his pronunciation, the word had three syllables.
    “No, Mr. Barrymore. This picture is about Gregory Vance—that’s your part—it’s the starring role and there are no other starring roles.”
    He looked at me long and hard and did not speak again until he had finished his cup of coffee. The he lit a fresh cigarette, regarded me once more, and ordered, “Tell me the story.”
    I did so.
    I was, by that time, beginning to be fairly experienced in the business of telling (selling) stories to various players. Sometimes I told them well; more often, poorly. On this afternoon with Barrymore, I surpassed myself and realized about one third of the way through that what it takes to sell a story well is a sympathetic listener. There has never been a listener to equal John Barrymore. He took it all in moment by moment and somehow I felt him helping me.
    I reached the penultimate point. Gregory Vance leaving the polling place, being greeted by the crowd, and making his speech on the meaning of democracy, ending with the lines by John Greenleaf Whittier:
    —Today, of all the weary year,
    A king of men am I.
    Today alike are great and small,
    The nameless and the known,
    My palace is the people’s hall,
    The ballot-box, my throne!
    Following this, I delivered the electrifying surprise finish. Barrymore roared with laughter and approval.
    “When do we start?” he said.
    The next few days were spent in the excitement of confident preparation. Everything seemed to be falling into place. I thought it time to invite Barrymore to dinner. I phoned him. Would he and Mrs. Barrymore have dinner with me on Friday at Chasen’s at eight?
    “I’ll be there,” he said. “Let’s leave her out of it, unless you’d like to buy her from me.”
    I pretended I had not heard this last.
    “By the way,” I said, “we think we have a final script now. Shall I send a copy along?”
    “Only if you’re sure it is final,” he said.
    “Well, in that case, maybe we’d better wait a few days.”
    That Friday night, as I walked into Chasen’s, at ten minutes to eight, I was simultaneously delighted and dismayed.
    Sitting at the bar waiting for me was John Barrymore, not only punctual but more than punctual. What did they mean, unreliable? Irresponsible. There he was, beautifully gotten up and waving to me affably.
    At the same moment, I saw Pandro S. Berman sitting with a party of friends in one of the booths. I would have preferred my first public meeting with Barrymore to have gone unscrutinized, but there it was.
    I joined Barrymore at the bar. We shook hands.
    “Good evening, Mr.