An elderly actor stops at our table. He is German. A flood of words at furious speed: his wife has left him and their five children. He whispers, looking around nervously, hinting that I am the only one to receive this confidence. But I can hear that he has told his story many times. To all who have time to listen.

He can’t understand. Had thought they were so happy. She had the lovely house. Its location was a bit isolated—he would admit that—but it was so beautiful . . . and, after all, she was never alone, plenty to do with the children. He was always good to her, in love with her, did everything he could to see that she was happy. Perhaps he was away traveling too much, but when he couldn’t get work in the film city itself— what was he to do?

Now she had gone, and he tells me confidentially he is sure she was crazy all along. Only he had never realized it. He had been too gullible. He was going to get a doctor’s certificate of insanity so that she could never come back with claims on the children. Would I give evidence in court?

He is thin and his hands tremble. Once he was a handsome man that many a girl tried to get. And eventually he wed the youngest of them all. There were children—one every year— and they both waited for happiness to follow. Something in which to relax and feel secure. Now the two will meet in court. And everything they didn’t know about each other they will reveal to indifferent and tired attorneys.