“Covering the welcome home … It’s a nice break from Boston.” He looked across at Esther, standing immobile under the wing of the aircraft as the flash bulbs exploded. “And pretty good to see you all again.”

Harry Grant had not always felt that way about the assignment. Four days before, when Ryan, the news editor, had called him into his office and told him to cover the latter half of Esther’s homecoming, from Washington to Boston, he had been ready to argue about it. Yet another two years on the Star-Telegram, with little measurable progress to show for them, had given an obtrusive edge to Grant’s self-confidence. If you said ‘yes’ to everyone, he had learnt, no one said ‘yes’ to you …

“Esther Costello?” he repeated, on a rising note, as if Ryan had said: “Write a very long piece about Father Christmas”: “Esther Costello? What’s new there? People know the story by heart, already.”

“She’s been away for nine months, raising all kinds of money,” answered Ryan. He liked Harry Grant for sticking his chin out a bit, but it wasn’t going to interfere with his assignments on the paper. Not yet, anyway. “That makes it a triumphant homecoming. I want you to go along with them, and cover the finish of the tour, from that angle. Intimate story of Boston’s own heroine. Blind Goddess Returns – we haven’t used that one yet.”

Harry Grant frowned. “I hope we never will … You mean, all the way to Washington, just for that?”

“And New York as well. You’ll love it.”

“I’m not a travelling man … It’s the same old story, in any case. I can write it from here.”

Ryan looked surprised, even hurt: it was his least convincing expression. “I thought you’d jump at it. It’s your story, Harry. You’ve done more than anyone else to put Esther on the map.”

Grant shrugged. “More’s the pity … I think she’s a racket, anyway.”

“How?”

“Oh, I don’t mean a racket, like protection or the horses. The girl’s a marvel, and she makes all the money there is for the blind. It’s just” – he gestured irritably – “it’s not like it was at the beginning. It’s too organized, too much of a circus.”

“That’s what brings the money in.”

“Sure. But it isn’t Esther. There’s too much streamlining – managers, Press handouts, clubs, uniforms, those lousy dolls … And then the meetings themselves – it’s too much of an act, all the way through. Sure, it raises money! But she’s too helpless, too clever, too radiating. Too many people pay to come in, too many people cry … Of course it’s a miracle, but the miracle’s been crowded out by too many other things – at top prices.” He paused. “Can I write it that way?”

“No.”

When Harry Grant had gone, Ryan switched to the next job; but his thoughts kept returning, now and then, to their discussion, and the return was not comfortable. Basically, he agreed with what Grant had said about Esther Costello: she was a racket – like everyone else, from the tubercular to the legless veteran, who was exposed for charity; and the charity angle didn’t alter the fact of racketeering, either. Esther was now one of an accepted company, whose role in life was to excite, first disgust, and then a liberal pity in the passers-by. She had joined the ranks of the beggars with sores, the polio victims dragging themselves along the streets, the old women with no noses, the children marching on their stumps.