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I am sure I don’t know what they will think of me when I get back. It seems as if; over here, I had learned to come out with everything. I suppose they will think I am not sincere; but isn’t it more sincere to come out with things than to conceal them? I have become very good friends with every one in the house–that is (you see, I AM sincere), with ALMOST every one. It is the most interesting circle I ever was in. There’s a girl here, an American, that I don’t like so much as the rest; but that is only because she won’t let me. I should like to like her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn’t seem to want to know me or to like me. She comes from New York, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant–in this respect would bear comparison with any one I have seen over here. But it seems as if she didn’t want to recognise me or associate with me; as if she wanted to make a difference between us. It is like people they call “haughty” in books. I have never seen any one like that before–any one that wanted to make a difference; and at first I was right down interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel. I kept saying to myself all day, “haughty, haughty,” and I wished she would keep on so. But she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then I began to feel hurt. I couldn’t think what I have done, and I can’t think yet. It’s as if she had got some idea about me, or had heard some one say something. If some girls should behave like that I shouldn’t make any account of it; but this one is so refined, and looks as if she might be so interesting if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal. I am bound to find out what her reason is–for of course she has got some reason; I am right down curious to know.

I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought that was the best way. I told her I wanted to know her better, and would like to come and see her in her room–they tell me she has got a lovely room–and that if she had heard anything against me, perhaps she would tell me when I came. But she was more distant than ever, and she just turned it off; said that she had never heard me mentioned, and that her room was too small to receive visitors. I suppose she spoke the truth, but I am sure she has got some reason, all the same. She has got some idea, and I am bound to find out before I go, if I have to ask everybody in the house. I AM right down curious. I wonder if she doesn’t think me refined–or if she had ever heard anything against Bangor? I can’t think it is that. Don’t you remember when Clara Barnard went to visit New York, three years ago, how much attention she received? And you know Clara IS Bangor, to the soles of her shoes. Ask William Platt–so long as he isn’t a native–if he doesn’t consider Clara Barnard refined.

Apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there is another American in the house–a gentleman from Boston–who is just crowded with it. His name is Mr. Louis Leverett (such a beautiful name, I think), and he is about thirty years old. He is rather small, and he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver. But his conversation is remarkably interesting, and I delight to listen to him–he has such beautiful ideas. I feel as if it were hardly right, not being in French; but, fortunately, he uses a great many French expressions. It’s in a different style from the conversation of Mr. Verdier–not so complimentary, but more intellectual. He is intensely fond of pictures, and has given me a great many ideas about them which I should never have gained without him; I shouldn’t have known where to look for such ideas. He thinks everything of pictures; he thinks we don’t make near enough of them. They seem to make a good deal of them here; but I couldn’t help telling him the other day that in Bangor I really don’t think we do.