But she emerged, oddly, to find herself something of a heroine.

Perhaps the stewardess had been talking, or possibly the ship’s doctor, whom she had called in one evening to give Esther a sedative, and to whom she had told her whole history. But whatever the source, the ship seemed to know all about Esther and herself, and when she appeared in the ornate, crowded bar for a drink before lunch, she found herself fêted by a number of total strangers who seemed as eager to hear the story from her own lips, as they were to pay for that drink, and the next, and the next. They were headed by a bushy-haired old man who, by his heavyweight charm and bland, booming self-assurance, was almost certainly a United States senator.

“It’s a fine thing you’re doing, ma’am,” was his initial approach – backed by a fluent series of dry Martinis – and the phrase (which echoed the Vice-Consul in Liverpool) was the keynote of all comment. Mrs Bannister was established as the centre of a widening circle of people, all intent on showing their interest and goodwill, and all seemingly overjoyed that on the last day of the voyage the relenting weather had made this possible. An Englishman said it was a dashed sporting effort; a famous actress proclaimed that it was pure Hollywood. An unknown man, already drunk, with a mulberry complexion, offered even money against a complete cure. An Episcopalian bishop, ill at ease in this sodality, promised his prayers. An old lady wanted to see Esther, a young one wanted her autograph. The Captain himself, toasting her at lunch, was complimentary and solicitous. The ship’s doctor winked at her. (So it was he who had spread the word.) A Brazilian of olive aspect pinched her knee, and appeared scandalized when she did not scream. A child in a cowboy suit, with food round its mouth, stared at her, and said: “Gee …”

It might have been a familiar shipboard routine to film stars and politicians, but to Mrs Bannister it was all novel, and all wonderful. After the long days spent cooped up in the cabin, with a stolid stewardess and a sick, terrified girl for company, there was immense exhilaration in thus emerging as a public figure, in spreading butterfly wings and finding that they had the world’s recognition and the world’s acclaim. It was the first time that anything of this sort had happened to her: and the fact that at its core was hidden so strange an object, the blind girl in the womb of the ship, seemed to give the whole happy session a secondary aspect, one of dedication. When, at intervals, Mrs Bannister withdrew below to look at Esther, it was like the High Priestess of the oracle leaving the pilgrims in order to visit the arcana within.

“Must be getting a little high,” she told herself caustically, when this last thought struck her. She had looked in on Esther after dinner, and was standing in the door of the cabin. The girl lay passive now: the shaded lamp at the bunkside showed her face pale and exhausted, but free of the look of wild strain it had worn during the past few days.