That remark may be very true, but I don’t care anything about the demand; I want to know French for its own sake. “Art for art,” they say; but I say French for French. I don’t want to think I’ve been all this while without having gained an insight. . . . The very next day, I asked the lady who kept the books at the hotel whether she knew of any family that could take me to board and give me the benefit of their conversation. She instantly threw up her hands with little shrill cries—in their wonderful French way, you know—and told me that her dearest friend kept a regular place of that kind. If she had known I was looking out for such a place she would have told me before; she hadn’t spoken of it herself because she didn’t wish to injure the hotel by working me off on another house. She told me this was a charming family who had often received American ladies—and others, including three Tahitans—who wished to follow up the language, and she was sure I’d fall in love with them. So she gave me their address and offered to go with me to introduce me. But I was in such a hurry that I went off by myself and soon found them all right. They were sitting there as if they kind of expected me, and wouldn’t scarcely let me come round again for my baggage. They seemed to have right there on hand, as those gentlemen of the theatre said, plenty of what I was after, and I now feel there’ll be no trouble about _that_. I came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time I’ve quite worked in. The price of board struck me as rather high, but I must remember what a chance to press onward it includes. I’ve a very pretty little room—without any carpet, but with seven mirrors, two clocks and five curtains. I was rather disappointed, however, after I arrived, to find that there are several other Americans here—all also bent on pressing onward. At least there are three American and two English pensioners, as they call them, as well as a German gentleman—and there seems nothing backward about _him_. I shouldn’t wonder if we’d make a regular class, with “moving up” and moving down; anyhow I guess I won’t be at the foot, but I’ve not yet time to judge. I try to talk with Madame de Maisonrouge all I can—she’s the lady of the house, and the _real_ family consists only of herself and her two daughters. They’re bright enough to give points to our own brightest, and I guess we’ll become quite intimate. I’ll write you more about everything in my next. Tell William Platt I don’t care a speck _what_ he does. III FROM MISS VIOLET RAY IN PARIS TO MISS AGNES RICH IN NEW YORK _September_ 21.