French conversation every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven,
with Madame herself, and some friends of hers that often come in. Her
cousin, Mr. Verdier, a young French gentleman, is fortunately staying
with her, and I make a point of talking with him as much as possible. I
have _extra private lessons_ from him, and I often go out to walk with
him. Some night, soon, he is to accompany me to the opera. We have also
a most interesting plan of visiting all the galleries in Paris together.
Like most of the French, he converses with great fluency, and I feel as
if I should really gain from him. He is remarkably handsome, and
extremely polite--paying a great many compliments, which, I am afraid,
are not always _sincere_. When I return to Bangor I will tell you some
of the things he has said to me. I think you will consider them
extremely curious, and very beautiful _in their way_.

The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often
remarkably brilliant, and I often wish that you, or some of the Bangor
folks, could be there to enjoy it. Even though you couldn't understand
it I think you would 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 (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express). It
seems as if; at Bangor, there were things that folks never _tried_ to
say; but here, I have learned from studying French that you have no idea
what you _can_ say, before you try. At Bangor they seem to give it up
beforehand; they don't make any effort. (I don't say this in the least
for William Platt, _in particular_.)

I am sure I don't know what they will think of me when I get back. It
seems as if; over here, I had learned to come out with everything. I
suppose they will think I am not sincere; but isn't it more sincere to
come out with things than to conceal them? I have become very good