“I never arrive empty‑handed!” boasted the 59‑year‑old fiancé, pulling out a half‑opened pack of tea. How I elegantly showed him the door.

Ive always thought that dating after fifty was a pastime reserved for people who have already settled their opinions, collected a fair amount of life experience and, at the very least, possess a rudimentary sense of decorum. Ive long since stopped daydreaming about princes on white horses.

Im fiftyfive, I work, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in a leafy part of London and a life thats pretty much humming along. Still, every now and then I crave a bit of ordinary human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee over a good book, a chat about the latest novel Ive devoured.

With those thoughts in mind I signed up to a dating site. Amid a flood of odd messages and outright bizarre proposals, the profile of Victor Harrington stood out for its pleasant normality.

He was fiftynine. His pictures showed a trim man in a smart blazer strolling through a summer park. In our messages he was courteous, showered me with sincere compliments, spoke proudly of his job as an engineer and his love for classical music.

After a week of texting we arranged to meet at a café on the South Bank. Victor turned out to be exactly as his photos suggested: dignified, with a touch of silver in his hair, and a polished way of speaking. He pulled my chair out, ordered two cappuccinos (refusing the cake, watching my sugar), and spent the evening extolling the importance of holding onto traditional values in these modern times.

Im a man of the old school, Eleanor, he said, gazing straight into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse, while a man ought to be a provider and protector. I cant stand the newfangled habit of keeping separate accounts. Courting should be done properly.

It sounded almost musical. We met twice more, walked along the Thames, talked about everything under the sun. Then the weekend arrived, and the weather turned decidedly British a relentless drizzle of November rain.

Eleanor, how about I pop round for dinner? Victors velvety voice announced over the phone. Well keep warm, have a proper chat. Im not coming emptyhanded, I promise. All I need from you is a cosy home and a smile.

Being a proper English lady, I didnt rely on just a smile. I launched into a thorough springclean, then headed to Tesco, picking up a nice cut of beef, fresh vegetables, a selection of cheeses and a pricey crusty loaf. I spent three hours in the kitchen.

I roasted the beef with prunes my signature dish that never fails to impress tossed together a light salad, set the crystal glasses, lit a few candles, slipped into a tasteful housedress and applied a light touch of makeup. By the appointed hour I was as nervous as a schoolgirl before her first date.

The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I smoothed my hair, took a deep breath and opened the door. Victor stood there, his coat damp from the rain but his bearing proudly unruffled.

Good evening, lovely host! he declared, stepping in, removing his hat and beginning to unbutton his coat. The kitchen was already perfumed with the intoxicating scent of roast beef. Victor inhaled dramatically and smiled: Ah, I can feel a proper feast awaiting me!

Come in, Victor. Let me take your coat, I said, halfexpecting the gifts hed promised. Honestly, a modest bouquet, a decent bottle of wine, maybe a box of chocolates would have done. Its the thought that counts.

Victor hung his coat, adjusted his blazer, then, with the flourish of a magician reaching into his hat, slipped his hand into the inner pocket and produced a packet of tea.

I took it automatically, lowered my eyes, and saw that it was a plain cardboard box of the cheapest black tea you can find on the lower shelves of a supermarket, on sale. The label was missing, the flap torn and haphazardly tucked inside.

I stood there, trying to process what had just happened.

Victor, is it opened? I asked quietly, halfafraid it might be some strange joke.

He didnt blush. On the contrary, his face lit up with the patronising grin of someone explaining the obvious to a child.

Of course! I bought a couple of sachets the other day, brewed them, and thought they were brilliant strong, quick to steep. No need to lug a whole packet; we wont drink it all in one evening. Why waste a good thing? Im sure you have something else to accompany it, being the host.

I was standing in the hallway of my tidy, candlelit flat. Behind me the beef with prunes steamed gently, the dish Id spent half a day and a fair sum preparing. In front of me stood a respectable, welldressed, fiftynineyearold gentleman, lecturing on traditional values, whod brought me a halfused packet of discount tea not even a full twentybag count.

A hundred possible reactions flashed through my mind. I could have laughed outright, launched into a tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallowed my irritation and forced him to sit down, feeling like a humbled servant. Instead, a calm I hadnt expected settled over me.

I placed the crumpled box on the side table near the mirror, looked Victor straight in the eye and smiled not a forced smile, but a genuine one, tinged with relief that hed revealed himself right there, at the doorstep, instead of after months of courtship.

Victor, I said, my voice even and soft Im genuinely touched by your generosity, but Im afraid we wont be needing this tea.

His eyebrows rose. Why? Dont you like black? I could bring some green next time, Ive got half a packet left at work

There wont be a next time, I replied, still calmly. Youre right, a man should contribute. Your contribution, however, was so impressive that I simply cant return the favour. My dinner doesnt reach that level.

I took his stilldamp coat from the rack and handed it back.

Whats the matter? Youre upset over a packet of tea? How mercenary! he blurted, his voice suddenly shrill, his face flushing. I came with all my heart after a hard week, and youre making a fuss over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!

I need respect, Victor. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put on your coat, its cold outside. And keep your tea you might catch a cold, and then youll have nothing to treat it with.

I handed him the halfused packet, nudged him toward the door and closed it behind him.

The lock clicked. The flat fell into a perfect silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. I drifted into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of good red wine, sliced a piece of the aromatic beef and sat down at the beautifully set table. By myself.

And you know what? The dinner was superb. The meat melted in my mouth, the wine sang in the crystal. I felt no disappointment, no loneliness just a quiet pride that I hadnt let anyone trample over me.

Men often accuse us of being materialistic, say were after sponsors. Lets be honest: it isnt about the price of the gift. Its about the attitude. A man who brings a halfused packet of tea isnt saving money; hes skimping on his own respect, on his sincerity. He shows that the woman isnt even worth a modest effort. Im done spending my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.

What do you think, dear readers? Have you ever encountered a similar display of male generosity? Or perhaps I was a tad harsh and should have given the man another chance?