“This is America,” he answered, offensively. “They won’t turn against her, because it’s how they expect a girl like Esther to be handled. For their money, she can do anything except a striptease act at the Hollywood Bowl … Jack Lett has the right idea.”

“Jack Lett, Jack Lett!” Suddenly she was nearly screaming, feeling herself being robbed of all she hoped for. “Who the hell is he, anyway? He sounds like a pimp.”

“We need a pimp.” He was completely uncompromising, completely unaffected by anything she might say: it had always been his deadliest weapon, and now it was routing her. “A commercial pimp, to back up what we’re doing ourselves. So far, we’ve only been playing with Esther … That idea of a children’s club is a stroke of genius.”

“It’s a stroke of swindling.” Now she could hardly find the words she sought: her mouth, ugly with anger and weakness, worked with difficulty round the tumbling syllables. “I’ll take her away from all this – I’ll hide her. You won’t do this to her.”

“I’ll do anything I want, anything I choose.” Suddenly he was standing up, looking at her with intense hatred and disdain. It was the moment of onslaught. “All those arguments I used, when I first arrived here – they’re still as good as they ever were. You’ve been evading all the charity laws, for years on end – you know you have – and as for the Income Tax people” – he grinned suddenly, sardonically – “it’s murder, out and out murder! You can’t fight me, Belle, and it’s no use trying. You’ll either do exactly as I say, or you’ll have a divorce on your hands, and an inquiry into the finances of this whole thing. Whichever way it goes, you’ll be finished.”

“I’d rather be finished.” But already there was a fatal edge of defeat in her voice. “Esther will crack up anyway, if you make her do too much. She’s terribly tired, right now.”

“That’s your part of the job …” By this stage, the subtle alchemy which decides all battles, for or against, had nearly worked itself out: the colours in the crucible had changed, and they both knew that Mrs Bannister was in retreat. “You keep her going, I do the managing, Jack Lett handles the commercial side. If she’s tired, for God’s sake deal with it! Give her benzedrine. Hire a doctor. Get a nurse.” His contempt as he spoke these words was obvious, and loathsome; she knew that he was thinking, as he had thought and said many times before: bloody Americans – that sort of fixing is all you’re good for … “Your job is to keep her fit – and it’s the least of our worries, anyway. Look,” he said reasonably, and she knew it was his old trick of seeming to relent on the crest of victory, “give it a chance. Jack Lett and I will do a moderate amount of promotion, on the new lines. Just wait and see what happens on the journey home.”