Burpee, Lord Streathmere, laughs gaily; he has become so accustomed to those little lectures from his mother that they go in one ear and out the other.
"Well really, mother, I actually believe my fate is sealed, at last; the girl I have selected, is a woman you don't meet every day."
The sweet perfume of mignonette and roses float through the long, handsome rooms, from the lovely vases fixed around in such sweet, artistic profusion. Lady Streathmere sighs. Whatever is she to do if Burpee brings home a wife whom she will blush to present to her friends?
"Who is she?" she asks, faintly, after a moment's reflection.
"She is a sister in the convent of St. Marguerite, one of the best and noblest of women. I know, when you know her goodness, you will say the same." Lord Streathmere leaves the mantel, where he has been standing, and goes over to the table, where his mother sits.
"Oh, my son, my son," she moans, "is it so bad as that? You surely are trying to jest with me."
"No, mother, not jesting. If she will have me I intend to marry her, although I have never spoken to her."
"Heaven grant you never may," groans Lady Streathmere. She is in an agony of doubt; it is even worse than she had expected.
"I was so sure you would take a fancy to Rea Severn. Such a nice, pretty girl; although there was none I should have liked better for a daughter than charming Dolores Litchfield. I think you are very cruel, Burpee, to treat your poor old mother so."
Burpee is busy selecting a fragrant rose to pin in his coat; it is more than probable he has not taken in all his mother has been saying.