'Yes,' she said, smiling, 'you don't like my making a show of myself--singing for coppers in the street. But isn't there worse than that among the people you live among, Miss? Mind, I see life in the rough; I can't always choose my company; and I have to take things as they come; but when I hear of very fine young ladies--mind, not poor girls driven by starvation, or forced to support a sick mother, or kicked out of doors by a drunken father--and these fine ladies going and selling themselves for so many thousands a year and a swell carriage--well, it sounds queer, I think. But I'm sure, Miss,' she said, regarding the girl, 'you won't make a marriage for money. You don't look like that.' Again Nan Beresford flushed hastily; and she said, with a touch of anger, 'I prefer not to speak of such things. I am tired of listening to women who can talk of nothing but sweethearts and marriage. Surely there are other matters of as much importance----' But then it occurred to her that this was scarcely civil; so she turned to this pleasant-looking stranger and said, with a grave courtesy, 'I presume you are returning to Brighton?' 'Yes, I am.' 'To remain there?' Sal laughed in her quiet way. 'Lord love you, my dear young lady, I never saw the town yet that could hold me for more than a couple o' nights. I live in the open. This is what I like best--open sea, open sky, open downs. I do believe my forefathers were either gipsies, or else they had had a good dose o' the treadmill; for I'm never content but when I'm on the trudge--wet weather or fine, all's the same to me; but foursquare walls I can't endure.' 'I am afraid you must lead a very solitary life,' said Nan, with sincere compassion.