ome down from London to recruit
his health and to see his friends. Sarah was struck by his appearance,
and looked back at him. He had been struck by hers, and looked back
also. He followed her, and spoke to her--some remark about the wind
or the weather--and she thought his voice divine. They got into
conversation--about scenery, lonely walks, and the dullness of St.
Heliers. "Did she often walk there?" "Sometimes." "Would she be there
tomorrow?" "She might." Mr. Lemoine lifted his hat, and went back to
dinner, rather pleased with himself.

They met the next day, and the day after that. Lemoine was not a
gentleman, but he had lived among gentlemen, and had caught something of
their manner. He said that, after all, virtue was a mere name, and that
when people were powerful and rich, the world respected them more than
if they had been honest and poor. Sarah agreed with this sentiment. Her
grandfather was honest and poor, and yet nobody respected him--at least,
not with such respect as she cared to acknowledge. In addition to his
talent for argument, Lemoine was handsome and had money--he showed her
quite a handful of bank-notes one day. He told her of London and the
great ladies there, and hinting that they were not always virtuous, drew
himself up with a moody air, as though he had been unhappily the cause
of their fatal lapse into wickedness. Sarah did not wonder at this in
the least. Had she been a great lady, she would have done the same. She
began to coquet with this seductive fellow, and to hint to him that
she had too much knowledge of the world to set a fictitious value upon
virtue. He mistook her artfulness for innocence, and thought he had made
a conquest. Moreover, the girl was pretty, and when dressed properly,
would look well. Only one obstacle stood in the way of their loves--the
dashing profligate was poor. He had been living in London above his
means, and his father was not inclined to increase his allowance.

Sarah liked him better than anybody else she had seen, but there are
two sides to every bargain. Sarah Purfoy must go to London. In vain her
lover sighed and swore. Unless he would promise to take her away with
him, Diana was not more chaste. The more virtuous she grew, the more
vicious did Lemoine feel. His desire to possess her increased in
proportionate ratio to her resistance, and at last he borrowed two
hundred pounds from his father's confidential clerk (the Lemoines were
merchants by professi