The younger lady held out to me the precious object in her hand. "Don't you think that's sweet?"

I looked at it a moment. "No, I think it's ugly."

She tossed her head as at a challenge to a romp. "Well, I don't believe you've any taste."

"Why, sir, it's just too lovely," said her mother.

"You'll see it some day _on_ me, anyway," piped Miss Ruck.

"Not very much," said Mr. Ruck quietly.

"It will be his own fault, then," Miss Sophy returned.

"Well, if we're going up to Chamouni we want to get something here," said Mrs. Ruck. "We mayn't have another chance."

Her husband still turned his eyes over the shop, whistling half under his breath. "We ain't going up to Chamouni. We're going back to New York City straight."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," she made answer. "Don't you suppose we want to take something home?"

"If we're going straight back I must have that bracelet," her daughter declared. "Only I don't want a velvet case; I want a satin case."

"I must bid you good-bye," I observed all irrelevantly to the ladies.

"I'm leaving Geneva in an hour or two."

"Take a good look at that bracelet, so you'll know it when you see it,"

was hereupon Miss Sophy's form of farewell to me.

"She's bound to have something!" her mother almost proudly attested.

Mr. Ruck still vaguely examined the shop; he still just audibly whistled.

"I'm afraid he's not at all well," I took occasion to intimate to his wife.

She twisted her head a little and glanced at him; she had a brief but pregnant pause. "Well, I must say I wish he'd improve!"

"A satin case, and a nice one!" cried Miss Ruck to the shopman.

I bade her other parent good-bye. "Don't wait for me," he said, sitting there on his stool and not meeting my eye. "I've got to see this thing through."

I went back to the Pension Beaurepas, and when an hour later I left it with my luggage these interesting friends had not returned.

A BUNDLE OF LETTERS

I FROM MISS MIRANDA HOPE IN PARIS TO MRS. ABRAHAM C. HOPE AT BANGOR MAINE

_September_ 5, 1879.

MY DEAR MOTHER,

I've kept you posted as far as Tuesday week last, and though my letter won't have reached you yet I'll begin another before my news acc.u.mulates too much. I'm glad you show my letters round in the family, for I like them all to know what I'm doing, and I can't write to every one, even if I do try to answer all reasonable expectations. There are a great many unreasonable ones, as I suppose you know-not yours, dear mother, for I'm bound to say that you never required of me more than was natural. You see you're reaping your reward: I write to you before I write to any one else.

There's one thing I hope-that you don't show any of my letters to William Platt. If he wants to see any of my letters he knows the right way to go to work. I wouldn't have him see one of these letters, written for circulation in the family, for anything in the world. If he wants one for himself he has got to write to me first. Let him write to me first and then I'll see about answering him. You can show him this if you like; but if you show him anything more I'll never write to you again.

I told you in my last about my farewell to England, my crossing the Channel and my first impressions of Paris. I've thought a great deal about that lovely England since I left it, and all the famous historic scenes I visited; but I've come to the conclusion that it's not a country in which I should care to reside. The position of woman doesn't seem to me at all satisfactory, and that's a point, you know, on which I feel very strongly. It seems to me that in England they play a very faded-out part, and those with whom I conversed had a kind of downtrodden tone, a spiritless and even benighted air, as if they were used to being snubbed and bullied _and as if they liked it_, which made me want to give them a good shaking. There are a great many people-and a great many things too-over here that I should like to get at for that purpose. I should like to shake the starch out of some of them and the dust out of the others. I know fifty girls in Bangor that come much more up to my notion of the stand a truly n.o.ble woman should take than those young ladies in England. But they had the sweetest way of speaking, as if it were a second nature, and the men are _remarkably handsome_. (You can show _that_ to William Platt if you like.)

I gave you my first impressions of Paris, which quite came up to my expectations, much as I had heard and read about it. The objects of interest are extremely numerous, and the climate remarkably cheerful and sunny. I should say the position of woman here was considerably higher, though by no means up to the American standard. The manners of the people are in some respects extremely peculiar, and I feel at last that I'm indeed in _foreign parts_. It is, however, a truly elegant city (much more majestic than New York) and I've spent a great deal of time in visiting the various monuments and palaces. I won't give you an account of all my wanderings, though I've been most indefatigable; for I'm keeping, as I told you before, a most _exhaustive_ journal, which I'll allow you the _privilege_ of reading on my return to Bangor. I'm getting on remarkably well, and I must say I'm sometimes surprised at my universal good fortune. It only shows what a little Bangor energy and gumption will accomplish wherever applied. I've discovered none of those objections to a young lady travelling in Europe by herself of which we heard so much before I left, and I don't expect I ever shall, for I certainly don't mean to look for them. I know what I want and I always go straight for it.

I've received a great deal of politeness-some of it really most pressing, and have experienced no drawbacks whatever. I've made a great many pleasant acquaintances in travelling round-both ladies and gentlemen-and had a great many interesting and open-hearted, if quite informal, talks.

I've collected a great many remarkable facts-I guess we don't know quite _everything_ at Bangor-for which I refer you to my journal. I a.s.sure you my journal's going to be a splendid picture of an earnest young life. I do just exactly as I do in Bangor, and I find I do perfectly right. At any rate I don't care if I don't. I didn't come to Europe to lead a merely conventional society life: I could do that at Bangor. You know I never _would_ do it at Bangor, so it isn't likely I'm going to worship false G.o.ds over here. So long as I accomplish what I desire and make my money hold out I shall regard the thing as a success. Sometimes I feel rather lonely, especially evenings; but I generally manage to interest myself in something or in some one. I mostly read up, evenings, on the objects of interest I've visited during the day, or put in time on my journal. Sometimes I go to the theatre or else play the piano in the public parlour. The public parlour at the hotel isn't much; but the piano's better than that fearful old thing at the Sebago House.

Sometimes I go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books-a real French lady, who's remarkably polite. She's very handsome, though in the peculiar French way, and always wears a black dress of the most beautiful fit. She speaks a little English; she tells me she had to learn it in order to converse with the Americans who come in such numbers to this hotel. She has given me lots of points on the position of woman in France, and seems to think that on the whole there's hope. But she has told me at the same time some things I shouldn't like to write to you-I'm hesitating even about putting them into my journal-especially if my letters are to be handed round in the family. I a.s.sure you they appear to talk about things here that we never think of mentioning at Bangor, even to ourselves or to our very closest; and it has struck me that people are closer-to each other-down in Maine than seems mostly to be expected here. This bright-minded lady appears at any rate to think she can tell me everything because I've told her I'm travelling for general culture. Well, I _do_ want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if I wanted to know most everything; and yet I guess there are some things that don't count for improvement. But as a general thing everything's intensely interesting; I don't mean only everything this charming woman tells me, but everything I see and hear for myself. I guess I'll come out where I want.

I meet a great many Americans who, as a general thing, I must say, are not so polite to me as the people over here. The people over here-especially the gentlemen-are much more what I should call almost oppressively attentive. I don't know whether Americans are more truly 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 calm them. Dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it is real interesting.

II FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME

_September_ 16.

Since I last wrote to you I've left that nice hotel and come to live in a French family-which, however, is nice too. This place is a kind of boarding-house that's at the same time a kind of school; only it's not like an American boarding-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 wasn't pressing onward quite as I had dreamed with the French. Wasn't I going to 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 wasn't having much 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 who came down to cut the ice than I saw I should ever hear at that nice hotel where was no struggle-_some_ fond struggle being my real atmosphere. The lady who kept the books seemed to want so much to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too, I suppose)-she kind of yearned to struggle too: we don't yearn _only_ down in Maine-that I couldn't bear to show her I didn't like it. The chambermaid was Irish and all the waiters German, so I never heard a word of French spoken. I suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; but as I don't buy anything-I prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture-I don't have that advantage.

I've been thinking some of taking a teacher, but am well acquainted with the grammar already, and over here in Europe teachers don't seem to think it's _really_ in their interest to let you press forward. The more you strike out and realise your power the less they've got to teach you. I was a good deal troubled anyhow, for I felt as if I didn't want to go away without having at least got a general idea of French conversation.

The theatre gives you a good deal of insight, and as I told you in my last I go a good deal to the brightest places of amus.e.m.e.nt. I find no difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always treated with the politeness which, as I've mentioned-for I want you to feel happy about that-I encounter everywhere from the best people. I see plenty of other ladies alone (mostly French) and they generally seem to be enjoying themselves as much as I. Only on the stage every one talks so fast that I can scarcely make out what they say; and, besides, there are a great many vulgar expressions which it's unnecessary to learn. But it was this experience nevertheless that put me on the track. The very next day after I wrote to you last I went to the Palais Royal, which is one of the princ.i.p.al theatres in Paris. It's very small but very celebrated, and in my guide-book it's marked with _two stars_, which is a sign of importance attached only to _first-cla.s.s_ objects of interest. But after I had been there half an hour I found I couldn't understand a single word of the play, they gabbled it off so fast and made use of such peculiar expressions. I felt a good deal disappointed and checked-I saw I wasn't going to come out where I had dreamed. But while I was thinking it over-thinking what I _would_ do-I heard two gentlemen talking behind me.

It was between the acts, and I couldn't help listening to what they said.

They were talking English, but I guess they were Americans.

"Well," said one of them, "it all depends on what you're after. I'm after French; that's what I'm after."

"Well," said the other, "I'm after Art."

"Well," said the first, "I'm after Art too; but I'm after French most."

Then, dear mother, I'm sorry to say the second one swore a little. He said "Oh d.a.m.n French!"

"No, I won't d.a.m.n French," said his friend. "I'll acquire it-that's what I'll do with it. I'll go right into a family."

"What family'll you go into?"

"Into some nice French family. That's the only way to do-to go to some place where you can talk. If you're after Art you want to stick to the galleries; you want to go right through the Louvre, room by room; you want to take a room a day, or something of that sort. But if you want to acquire French the thing is to look out for some family that has got-and they mostly have-more of it than they've use for themselves. How _can_ they have use for so much as they seem to _have_ to have? They've got to work it off. Well, they work it off on _you_. There are lots of them that take you to board and teach you. My second cousin-that young lady I told you about-she got in with a crowd like that, and they posted her right up in three months. They just took her right in and let her have it-the full force. That's what they do to you; they set you right down and they talk _at_ you. You've got to understand them or perish-so you strike out in self-defence; you can't help yourself. That family my cousin was with has moved away somewhere, or I should try and get in with them. They were real live people, that family; after she left my cousin corresponded with them in French. You've got to do _that_ too, to make much real head. But I mean to find some other crowd, if it takes a lot of trouble!"

I listened to all this with great interest, and when he spoke about his cousin I was on the point of turning around to ask him the address of the family she was with; but the next moment he said they had moved away, so I sat still. The other gentleman, however, didn't seem to be affected in the same way as I was.

"Well," he said, "you may follow up that if you like; I mean to follow up the pictures. I don't believe there's ever going to be any considerable demand in the United States for French; but I can promise you that in about ten years there'll be a big demand for Art! And it won't be temporary either."