I’ve received a great deal of politeness—some of it really most pressing, and have experienced no drawbacks whatever. I’ve made a great many pleasant acquaintances in travelling round—both ladies and gentlemen—and had a great many interesting and open-hearted, if quite informal, talks. I’ve collected a great many remarkable facts—I guess we don’t know quite _everything_ at Bangor—for which I refer you to my journal. I assure you my journal’s going to be a splendid picture of an earnest young life. I do just exactly as I do in Bangor, and I find I do perfectly right. At any rate I don’t care if I don’t. I didn’t come to Europe to lead a merely conventional society life: I could do that at Bangor. You know I never _would_ do it at Bangor, so it isn’t likely I’m going to worship false gods over here. So long as I accomplish what I desire and make my money hold out I shall regard the thing as a success. Sometimes I feel rather lonely, especially evenings; but I generally manage to interest myself in something or in some one. I mostly read up, evenings, on the objects of interest I’ve visited during the day, or put in time on my journal. Sometimes I go to the theatre or else play the piano in the public parlour. The public parlour at the hotel isn’t much; but the piano’s better than that fearful old thing at the Sebago House. Sometimes I go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books—a real French lady, who’s remarkably polite. She’s very handsome, though in the peculiar French way, and always wears a black dress of the most beautiful fit. She speaks a little English; she tells me she had to learn it in order to converse with the Americans who come in such numbers to this hotel. She has given me lots of points on the position of woman in France, and seems to think that on the whole there’s hope. But she has told me at the same time some things I shouldn’t like to write to you—I’m hesitating even about putting them into my journal—especially if my letters are to be handed round in the family. I assure you they appear to talk about things here that we never think of mentioning at Bangor, even to ourselves or to our very closest; and it has struck me that people are closer—to each other—down in Maine than seems mostly to be expected here. This bright-minded lady appears at any rate to think she can tell me everything because I’ve told her I’m travelling for general culture. Well, I _do_ want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if I wanted to know most everything; and yet I guess there are some things that don’t count for improvement. But as a general thing everything’s intensely interesting; I don’t mean only everything this charming woman tells me, but everything I see and hear for myself. I guess I’ll come out where I want.