"Ah! we shall warm them," said Lord Glengall, beaming at her. "We shall have fine jinks if only you and your father will spend six months of the year at Carrickmoyle. I am no Londoner, and never shall be. But I shall be able to endure six months of solitude if I know I am going to have you for the remainder of the year." "You will not long be left solitary. You cheated the country the last time by disappearing again before it had had time to rejoice over you. Your return will flutter the dovecotes for thirty miles around." "You are very kind, Sylvia," said Lord Glengall simply. "But you have not told me half the news," he went on. "How is Molly?" "Flourishing. Mick has got his company. He wouldn't leave the service on any consideration, and I think he was right. They are as much in love with each other as ever; and they have a beautiful boy." "Ah! that is right. Molly deserved to be happy." "She did, and so did Mick. Mick is a dear old fellow." "And Pam, Sylvia?" There was no consciousness in his voice. "Pam, too, is a success. She has been a beauty for three seasons, strange to say." "And it is a happy marriage?" "Perfectly happy. They are ideally well suited." "I am glad of that. How does Pam get on with her mother-in-law?" "Fairly well, I believe. Lady Jane keeps herself to herself, which is lucky for Pam. I never took to that lady. But she is devoted to the heir. She wouldn't strike you, somehow, as a grandmotherly person, but it is so." "There is an heir?" "Yes; he is two years old, and he has a baby sister of seven months." "Ah! how you young people have been making history since I left. I shall not know this new world of your making." "You find me changed?" "Lovelier, Sylvia." "It is nice to have you say that." "Still greedy for conquest, even though it is only an old fogey?" "Ah!"--with more intensity than he thought the occasion demanded--"you never can be that!" "You are always kind, little girl. When I look into your eyes, I fancy it is the old Sylvia I am talking to, and not a fine lady." "It is the old Sylvia." "The Sylvia I knew would never have worn this"--touching a fold of her dress. "She would, if she could. It is only a Paris tea-gown. She was happier in the prints at sixpence a yard from Guirk's shop in Lettergort." "Happier, Sylvia? What have you been doing with yourself since?" "Growing old and faded with trying to occupy several houses at once and doing a great many things I detest." She laughed at him from where she sat in her youth and beauty, and he laughed in answer. "Where are the lads who used to be in love with you?" "All married, except Algy St. Quintin; but he has long given up asking me. We are good comrades." "No more than that, Sylvia?" "No more than that. I wouldn't lose sight of him for anything. He is just the same imp of mischief, as Bridget used to call him. His coolness is phenomenal, and his impudence so deliciously incongruous with his cherubic boy's face."