friends with every one in the house--that is (you see, I _am_ sincere),
with _almost_ every one. It is 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 is only because she won't let me. I should like to like
her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but
she doesn't seem to want to know me or to like me. She comes from New
York, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most
delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant--in this respect would
bear comparison with any one I have 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 have 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 would keep on so.
But she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then I began to feel hurt.
I couldn't think what I have 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 shouldn't make any account of it; but
this one is so refined, and looks as if she might be so interesting if I
once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal. I am bound to
find out what her reason is--for of course she has got some reason; I am
right down curious to know.

I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought that was
the best way. I told her I wanted to know her better, and would like to
come and see her in her room--they tell me she has got a lovely room--and
that if she had heard anything against me, perhaps she would tell me when
I came. But she was more distant than ever, and she just turned it off;
said that she had never heard me mentioned, and that her room was too