The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often remarkably brilliant, and I often wish that you, or some of the Bangor folks, could be there to enjoy it.  Even though you couldn’t understand it I think you would like to hear the way they go on; they seem to express so much.  I sometimes think that at Bangor they don’t express enough (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express).  It seems as if; at Bangor, there were things that folks never tried to say; but here, I have learned from studying French that you have no idea what you can say, before you try.  At Bangor they seem to give it up beforehand; they don’t make any effort. (I don’t say this in the least for William Platt, in particular.)

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.