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He recalled with a little twinge the scared expression that had come over his mother’s face, the hurt and supercilious protest voiced by his sister, the strained congratulations offered by Girlie Windrom, Walter’s sister, who had been visiting them, and the ominous silence from the paternal end of the table. A few days later his father had seen him off to Southampton, with the final comment: “Till the soil by all means, my boy. I can understand a farmer. We’ve all farmed. But we’ve never gone so far afield for our wives.”

Then, with a more sympathetic impulse his father had said, “Your mother and I had rather set our hearts on Girlie Windrom for you. One of these days you will have to assume responsibilities as head of the family, whether it bores you or not, and it is not wholly reassuring to know that our name will be handed on to nephews of a French-Canadian traitor.” Keble had reflected that Louise could scarcely be held to account for her aunt’s marriage to a man who had brilliantly satirized some of his father’s most pompous Imperialistic speeches, but he had seen that nothing would be gained by pointing this out.