It was this uncertainty that made her, within a few hours, pack up and put herself and Esther on the train for Boston. Her commonsense, of which she had plenty, told her that she must now stop fooling around, and get to work properly.

Three friends met her at the station, as she had hoped they would: they were Mrs Forbes, Mrs Tempest, and Paul Marchant. The two ladies were of her own age, though sunk far deeper in the cushion of matrimony than she had ever been. Mrs Forbes was large, and married to a cotton-broker; Mrs Tempest was small, and widowed by a bank manager. Paul Marchant, a dapper man of forty-five who dealt in hardware (though on a very large scale), was known to their circle as the man who wanted to marry Belle Bannister. The fact that he had worn this label for upwards of ten years, without action on either side, had never seemed to affect its validity. These three were her best friends in Boston; and the fact that they were there to welcome her made it a true homecoming.

As the train drew to a standstill she saw them all waiting in an expectant group, and she waved vigorously. They moved forward to greet her. After four months, nothing was changed. Mrs Forbes had a new hat, Mrs Tempest an old one; Paul Marchant carried a bunch of American Beauty roses. Mrs Bannister was drawn down into their circle, with kisses and cries all round. It was like stepping, gratefully, into a warm bath.

“We read about you,” said Mrs Forbes, after the first greetings were over. “Quite famous, darling.” She was good-natured enough to sound genuinely pleased.

“Where’s the girl?” asked Mrs Tempest. “Is she really blind?”

“Have you gone crazy, Belle?” said Paul Marchant.

Mrs Bannister laughed. “She’s inside. I’ll bring her out in a minute.” And to Paul Marchant: “Just a little bit, darling. I did it on the spur of the moment. You’ll all have to help me.”

Beyond them, three men, two with cameras, were moving up like skirmishers, intent on invading the party.

“The Star-Telegram called me up,” said Mrs Forbes in explanation. “I had to say when you were getting in.”

“That’s OK,” said Mrs Bannister.

At her elbow the train conductor, who had been a useful ally during the past few hours, said: “Shall we help her down, ma’am?”

“Yes, do that …” Mrs Bannister turned, and there was Esther, poised at the top of the coach steps, with another man in uniform at her elbow. A flashgun went off and then a second. Mrs Bannister reached up to take Esther’s hand, a voice said “Hold it!” and there was a third flash as she paused, automatically, and waited for release.

Mrs Forbes said: “It’s just like the movies.”

Paul Marchant said: “Don’t let them bother you.”

“That’s OK,” said Mrs Bannister again. “We’re used to it.”

Esther, having been helped down to the platform, stood, as usual, in patient composure. The others looked at her, momentarily without comment, since what they were looking at was less remarkable than they had been expecting. They saw a fair-haired schoolgirl in a short blue dress, pale, unsmiling, and still. She had an inward look about the eyes, but that was all that marked her out from the world.