I met Mr. Fellows, a mustachioed fellow, World War I veteran in cream linen suit with scent of cigar, on the front porch after school.

“Is Louise home?” he asked, and I said, “Yes.”

“Are others calling?”

I said, “No.”

We opened the door, though, greeted by a bridge game of my grandmother’s friends. They tittered behind hands raised with fanned cards, knocking the afternoon Manhattans ever so slightly.

“Oh, Arthur,” my grandmother said.

Forty years separated, but never divorced. She had many admirers.