woman in France, and much of it is very encouraging.  But she has told me at the same time some things that I should not like to write to you (I am 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, or even of thinking about.  She seems to think she can tell me everything, because I told her I was travelling for general culture.  Well, I do want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if I wanted to know everything; and yet there are some things that I think I don’t want to know.  But, as a general thing, everything is intensely interesting; I don’t mean only everything that this French lady tells me, but everything I see and hear for myself.  I feel really as if I should gain all I desire.

I meet a great many Americans, who, as a general thing, I must say, are not as polite to me as the people over here.  The people over here—­especially the gentlemen—­are much more what I should call attentive.  I don’t know whether Americans are more sincere; I haven’t yet made up my mind about that.  The only drawback I experience is when Americans sometimes express surprise that I should be travelling round alone; so you see it doesn’t come from Europeans.  I always have my answer ready; “For general culture, to acquire the languages, and to see Europe for myself;” and that generally seems to satisfy them.  Dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it is real interesting.

CHAPTER II

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

September 16th.

Since I last wrote to you I have left that hotel, and come to live in a French family.  It’s a kind of boarding-house combined with a kind of school; only it’s not like an American hoarding-house, nor like an American school either.  There are four or five people here that have come to learn the language—­not to take lessons, but to have an opportunity for conversation.  I was very glad to come to such a place, for I had begun to realise that I was not making much progress with the French.  It seemed to me that I should feel ashamed to have spent two months in Paris, and not to have acquired more insight into the language.  I had always heard so much of French conversation, and I found I was having no more opportunity to practise it than if I had remained at Bangor.  In fact, I used to hear a great deal more at Bangor, from those French Canadians that came down to cut the ice, than I saw I should ever hear at that hotel.  The lady that kept the books seemed to want so much to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too, I suppose), that I couldn’t bear to let her know I didn’t like it.  The chambermaid was Irish, and all the waiters were German, so that I never heard a word of French spoken.  I suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; only, as I don’t buy anything—­I prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture—­I don’t have that advantage.