“And Esther,” said Jack Lett, catching his mood, suddenly bursting with it, “can be at the top of the tree, the hidden secret figure in the middle. The Mystic Colleen Tapalong. Like the Shriners … Charlie,” he said – and Charles Bannister no longer winced – “Charlie, you’re a genius.”

‘Genius’ was not among the many words which Mrs Bannister used, when confronted with these plans next morning. For one of the few times in her joint life with Charles Bannister, she was lividly angry, and she made the fact clear, in a stormy interview which they both remembered for long afterwards. More memorable still was the fact that it was the last time that she opposed her husband, where Esther was concerned. Thereafter, defeated, she let him have his way.

But before she got to that point, many things were said that widened for ever the gulf between them.

“You can’t do it, Charles,” she said, again and again. “I’m not going to allow it. It’s not fair to Esther. She’s happy, everything’s going well, we make plenty of money. Why spoil it with all this” – she searched for a word – “this exploitation?”

“It’s not spoiling it,” said Charles Bannister. He was liverish and irritable after the long session of the night before, and he felt in the mood for a showdown. Very soon the moment for that would come … “I’m just extending it a bit, that’s all.”

“Extending it? It’s the rottenest idea you’ve ever produced – and that’s saying a hell of a lot! No, Charles,” she shook her head vehemently. “You’ve got to leave things as they are. I’m not going to have the kid ruined like this.”

Charles Bannister ground out his cigarette, and looked across at her coldly. “You’re going to do exactly what I say,” he told her, in his most even voice. “Let’s get that straight. I’m running this show. We agreed on that, a very long time ago.”

“We didn’t agree to a lot of trash like this.” She motioned contemptuously towards the litter of objects that lay between them on the table: the dog, the doll, the snakes and ladders game, the trio of monkey-like figures – all of them forlorn, ugly, and indecent in the morning sunlight. “Just look at them … If you had two cents’ worth of shame in you, you’d throw the lot out into the street.”

“Well, I haven’t that two cents’ worth, and you should know it by now.” His voice was tough and edgy. “We’re going ahead with all this” – he gestured, as she had done, but with satisfaction instead of disgust – “with the toys, and the trademark, and the club as well. It’s a natural development of what we’ve been doing in the past. We’d be fools not to expand when we’ve got the chance … Jack Lett is working on it now.”

“But it’s so – so undignified.” Faced with his intransigence, she sought for an argument valid within the framework of his own reasoning. “People won’t like it. They’ll turn against her.”