The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) ranges over many subjects—I sometimes feel as if it really avoided _none_; and I often wish you or some of the Bangor folks could be there to enjoy it. Even though you couldn’t understand it I think you’d 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—except that it seems as if over there they’ve less _to_ express. It seems as if at Bangor there were things that folks never _tried_ to say; but I seem to have learned here from studying French that you’ve no idea what you _can_ say before you try. At Bangor they kind of give it up beforehand; they don’t make any effort. (I don’t say this in the least for William Platt _in particular_.) I’m sure I don’t know what they’ll think of me when I get back anyway. It seems as if over here I had learned to come out with everything. I suppose they’ll think I’m not sincere; but isn’t it more sincere to come right out with things than just to keep feeling of them in your mind—without giving any one the benefit? I’ve become very good friends with every one in the house—that is (you see I _am_ sincere) with _almost_ every one. It’s 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’s only because she won’t let me. I should like to like her, ever so much, because she’s most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn’t seem to want to know me or to take to me. She comes from New York and she’s remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she’s also splendidly stylish—in this respect would bear comparison with any one I’ve 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’ve 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’d keep on so. But she did keep on—she kept on too long; and then I began to feel it in a different way, to feel as if it kind of wronged me. I couldn’t think what I’ve 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 wouldn’t make any account of it; but this one’s so refined, and looks as if she might be so fascinating if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal. I’m bound to find out what her reason is—for of course she has got some reason; I’m right down curious to know.