“Was it worth it?” I asked. I was at the age when sacrifice and renunciation were great, terrifying, romantic concepts.

“No, it blew up,” said Father. “Jack Martindale simply had no idea what a woman like that is, or needs. He wanted to turn her into a Westmount housewife. Talk about Pegasus chained to the plough!”

Oh, indeed I was anxious to talk about Pegasus chained to the plough. That was just the kind of swordsman thing Father could say; he could see the poetry in daily life. But he didn’t want to talk about Myrrha Martindale; he wanted me to meet her and form my own opinion. That was like him, too: not dictating or managing, as so many of my friends’ fathers seemed to do.

Mrs Martindale had an apartment on Côte des Neiges Road with a splendid view over Montreal; I guessed it was costing the banished Jack Martindale plenty, and I thought it was quite right that it should do so, for Mrs Martindale was indeed a wonderful person. She was beautiful in a mature way, and had a delightful voice, with an actress’s way of making things seem much more amusing than they really were. Not that she strove to shine as a wit. She let Father do that, very properly, but her responses to his jokes were witty in themselves—not topping him, but supporting him and setting him off.

“You mustn’t expect a real dinner,” she said to me. “I thought it would be more fun if we were just by ourselves, the three of us, so I sent my maid out. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

Disappointed! It was the most grown-up affair I had ever known. Wonderful food that Myrrha—she insisted I call her Myrrha, because all her friends did—produced herself from under covers and off hottrays, and splendid wines that were better than anything I had ever tasted. I knew they must be good because they had that real musty aftertaste, like dusty red ink instead of fresh red ink.

“This is terribly good of you, Myrrha,” said Father. “It’s time Davey learned something about wines. About vintage wines, instead of very new stuff.” He raised his glass to Mrs Martindale, and she blushed and looked down as I had so often seen Judy do, only Mrs Martindale seemed more in command of herself. I raised my glass to her, too, and she was delighted and gave me her hand, obviously meaning that I should kiss it. I had kissed Judy often enough, though never while eating and seldom on the hand, but I took it as gallantly as I could—surely I was getting to be a swordsman—and kissed it on the tips of the fingers. Father and Mrs Martindale looked pleased but didn’t say anything, and I felt I had done well.

It was a wonderful dinner. It wasn’t necessary to be excited, as if I were with people my own age; calmness was the keynote, and I told myself that it was educational in the very best sense and I ought to keep alert and not miss anything. And not drink too much wine. Father talked a lot about wines, and Mrs Martindale and I were fascinated. When we had coffee he produced a huge bottle of brandy, which was very hard to get at that time.