Fine clothes vulgarize her.

Fine surroundings demoralize her.

Lodged on the sixth story, rich in the possession of a cuckoo-clock, a canary, half a dozen pots of mignonette, and some bits of cheap furniture in imitation mahogany, she has every virtue and every fault that is charming in woman--childlike gaiety; coquetry; thoughtless generosity; the readiest laugh, the readiest tear, and the warmest heart in the world.

Transplant her to the Chaussee d'Antin, instil the taste for diamonds, truffles, and Veuve Clicquot, and you poison her whole nature.

She becomes false, cruel, greedy, prodigal of your money, parsimonious of her own--a vampire--a ghoul--the hideous thing we call in polite parlance a _Fille de Marbre."_ Thus, with much gravity and emphasis, spoke Herr Franz Mueller, lying on his back upon a very ricketty sofa, and smoking like a steam-engine.