"I never saw any girl looking so wretched as Rea Severn; I wonder what ails the girl?" asks Lady Streathmere.
"I should be very thankful, if I were you, that my son had enough discretion not to marry a girl who is killing herself by eating opium," Lord Streathmere says, deciding on a cream instead of a pink rose. "As for Dolores, she did me the honor to refuse me, but in such a nice way that, 'pon my word, I forgot to feel bad over it."
Burpee, Lord Streathmere, possesses a good, though rather effeminate face, and now, when lit up by enthusiasm, he looks the ideal of an easy, good-tempered fellow, of whom any mother might well be proud. Certainly Mrs. St. James must have exaggerated when she had described him as a "horrid, quarrelsome little boy"; for a better, nor a more peaceful young man never existed.
"Burpee, how dare you speak so unkindly of Rea Severn, who has always, to my knowledge, been beyond reproach," Lady Streathmere says, sternly. "Mrs. St. James is a friend of mine, and I am sure Arial never mentioned such a thing." To be sure, she had heard many people remark about Rea's complexion, her scarlet cheeks and the feverish looking sparkle in her eyes, but the girl was always in such high spirits, she never seemed ill, and Lady Streathmere always understood opium eaters were nervous; altogether it all seems very perplexing. Burpee strides over to the piano and fusses around among the music.
"Everyone knows it, and I dislike Mrs. St. James most heartily." Burpee dashes off into a breezy little ballad that used to be a favorite of Dolores, and Lady Streathmere leaves the room. She has no patience with the boy when he is in a mood like the present. Lord Streathmere dislikes being left alone, so he goes down town, and meets Sir Barry Traleigh.
"Look here, Sir Barry," he says, taking the Scotchman's arm, "Will you get me acquainted with Sister Jean? I am going to marry that girl, if she will have me. Day after day I have watched her go on her dreary visit to the jail to see Fanchon. Such devotion I never heard of. I want you to plead my cause for me, to my mother. Tell her the girl's story; you are more plausible about such things than I am." Sir Barry looks amused.
"What will Lady Streathmere say?" he asks.
"I want you to tell her, and get me acquainted as soon as you can; will you?" Sir Barry looks at his watch.
"I am afraid it will be no use Streathmere. Her first taste of married life has been so bitter, it is very doubtful if she would care to try it a second time." Lord Streathmere looks distressed, and Sir Barry goes on. "Of course I don't want to discourage you, but you will do well to be prepared for a refusal."
The pretty little Bijou Theatre is ablaze with lights, brilliant jewels and handsome women. And over there in a box sits Lady Streathmere, and leaning over her plush chair back stands handsome Sir Barry Traleigh. Many pairs of bright, eager eyes are levelled upon this society favorite. But alas for them, Sir Barry is too deeply interested, by what he is saying, to be conscious of the flattering scrutiny. He is relating Jantie's sad love story to the high bred looking lady.