Lord Glandore followed the prevailing fashion, carried off Miss Wolfe to his wild isle in Donegal, and society said it was well done. She was no heiress, but that too was well, for my lord was rich enough for both. The parson of Letterkenny was summoned to the islet to tie the knot (it was unmodish for persons of quality to be married in a church), and a year later the twain returned to the metropolis, with a baby heir and every prospect of future happiness. But somehow there was a gulf between them. Young, rich, worshipped, they were not happy. My lord went back to his old ways--drinking, hunting, fighting, wenching--my lady moped. Six years later another son was born to them, whose advent, strange to say, instead of being a blessing, was a curse, and divided the ill-assorted pair still further. Each shrined a son as special favourite, my lord taking to his bosom the younger, Terence--whilst my lady doted with a hungry love upon the elder, Shane. My lord, out of perversity maybe, swore that Shane was stupid and viciously inclined, unworthy to inherit the honours of Sir Amorey. My lady, spiteful perchance through heartache, devoured her darling with embraces, adored the ground he trod on, kissed in private the baby stockings he had outgrown, the toys he had thrown aside; and seemed to grudge the younger one the very meat which nourished him. This hint given, you can mark how the case stands as my lord enters the upper room at Daly's. Shane, a handsome, delicate youth, far up in his teens, retires nervously behind his mother, whilst Terence, a chubby child of twelve, runs forward with a shout to search his father's pocket for good things. What a pity, you think no doubt, for a family to whom fortune has been so generous to be divided in so singular a manner. 'What!' cries my lord, as, laughing, he tosses the lad into the air. 'More comfits? No, no. They'd ruin thy pretty teeth, to say nothing of thy stomach. Go play with mammy's bayonet. By-and-by thou shalt have sword and pistol of thine own--aye, and a horse to ride--a dozen of them!' And the boy, without fear, obeys the odd behest, for he knows that in his father's presence my lady dares not chide him, albeit she makes no pretence of love. He takes the dainty weapon from its sheath and makes passes at his big brother with it; for my Lady Glandore, like many another patriotic peeress, wears a toy-bayonet at her side, just as she wears the scarlet jacket piped with black of her husband's regiment, the high black stock, and a headdress resembling its helmet.