It seemed to Mrs Bannister that she added something else – something that sounded like ‘film contract’. But it was happily, mercifully lost in the distance.

That was not their only encounter on Boston Common. It was on this same spot, under the trees in the warm summer sunshine, that events, for both of them, presently took a fresh and decisive turn.

They had been sitting on their favourite bench, halfway up the hill: to Esther, the dappled sun on her face was a warm blessing, while for Mrs Bannister the hum of traffic from the lower edge of the Common made a lazy, soothing containment for her thoughts. Esther held a pigeon cushioned in one hand, while with the other she fed it crumbs from a paper bag: her face was intent and serious, her movements gently precise. People passed them at a slow walk; more pigeons, emboldened by sunshine and the promise of food, fluttered round the bench: children wandered up to watch and to comment. Presently a tall young man, hatless, in a flannel suit and a brisk bow tie, glanced sideways at them as he passed, and checked his step with a frown. Then he turned back, and stood above them, still looking puzzled. Finally he said: “Mrs Bannister?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Bannister tentatively. Then she recognized him. It was the reporter from the Star-Telegram, the one who had met them at South Station, nearly three years ago. She smiled, since he was young, and undoubtedly good-looking, and said: “Hallo, there …”

He smiled in answer. “Remember me?”

“Surely. Are you still on the paper?”

“Yes.” His eyes turned towards Esther, and grew puzzled again. “But … Is this – her?”

“Yes – it’s Esther Costello. Didn’t you recognize her?”

“Only just.” His blue eyes in the pleasant, assured face were gazing at Esther with frank admiration. “I didn’t even know she was still in America.”

Mrs Bannister laid her fingers on Esther’s wrist, and spelled out a sentence or two. Esther looked up in the young man’s direction, and smiled.

Confused, he smiled back, and said: “Hallo.”

Mrs Bannister shook her head. “No, she still can’t hear. Or see.”

“Good grief!” His face was now a study in wonderment. “You mean – but you were talking to her. How did you learn?”

“I learned …” She smiled up at him, and then, on an impulse, patted the bench beside her. “It’s quite a story. Would you like to hear it?”

He nodded vigorously, still looking at Esther. “Sure would … She’s beautiful, too …” He transferred his gaze to Mrs Bannister. “I’m Harry Grant,” he said, and sat down at her side. “Tell me what’s been happening.”

She told him the story, and her own part in it, while he watched her and Esther by turns, and interrupted only to say, at one point: “It’s a hell of a thing you took on.” There was in his face a most agreeable admiration – and the face itself, Mrs Bannister could not help noticing, was both attractive and intelligent … Presently she broke off her story, to interject: “What do you do on the paper?”