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.

If I had any money to spend I would buy some and take them back, to hang up.  Mr. Leverett says it would do them good—­not the pictures, but the Bangor folks.  He thinks everything of the French, too, and says we don’t make nearly enough of them.  I couldn’t help telling him the other day that at any rate they make enough of themselves.  But it is very interesting to hear him go on about the French, and it is so much gain to me, so long as that is what I came for.  I talk to him as much as I dare about Boston, but I do feel as if this were right down wrong—­a stolen pleasure.

I can get all the Boston culture I want when I go back, if I carry out my plan, my happy vision, of going there to reside.  I ought to direct all my efforts to European culture now, and keep Boston to finish off.  But it seems as if I couldn’t help taking a peep now and then, in advance—­with a Bostonian.  I don’t know when I may meet one again; but if there are many others like Mr. Leverett there, I shall be certain not to want when I carry out my dream.  He is just as full of culture as he can live.  But it seems strange how many different sorts there are.