Publisher's Synopsis
The octagon room at Sir Robert Chiltern's house in Grosvenor Square. [The room is brilliantly lighted and full of guests. At the top of the staircase stands LADY CHILTERN, a woman of grave Greek beauty, about twenty-seven years of age. She receives the guests as they come up. Over the well of the staircase hangs a great chandelier with wax lights, which illumine a large eighteenth-century French tapestry-representing the Triumph of Love, from a design by Boucher-that is stretched on the staircase wall. On the right is the entrance to the music-room. The sound of a string quartette is faintly heard. The entrance on the left leads to other reception-rooms. MRS. MARCHMONT and LADY BASILDON, two very pretty women, are seated together on a Louis Seize sofa. They are types of exquisite fragility. Their affectation of manner has a delicate charm. Watteau would have loved to paint them.] MRS. MARCHMONT. Going on to the Hartlocks' to-night, Margaret? LADY BASILDON. I suppose so. Are you? MRS. MARCHMONT. Yes. Horribly tedious parties they give, don't they? LADY BASILDON. Horribly tedious! Never know why I go. Never know why I go anywhere. MRS. MARCHMONT. I come here to be educated. LADY BASILDON. Ah! I hate being educated! MRS. MARCHMONT. So do I. It puts one almost on a level with the commercial classes, doesn't it? But dear Gertrude Chiltern is always telling me that I should have some serious purpose in life. So I come here to try to find one.
