e! We meet at lunch and dinner, though often I
am alone with my mother at this latter meal, and I foresee that still
oftener I shall take it in my own rooms (following the example of
my grandmother) with only Miss Griffith for company, for my mother
frequently dines out. I have ceased to wonder at the indifference my
family have shown to me. In Paris, my dear, it is a miracle of virtue to
love the people who live with you, for you see little enough of them; as
for the absent--they do not exist!

Knowing as this may sound, I have not yet set foot in the streets, and
am deplorably ignorant. I must wait till I am less of the country cousin
and have brought my dress and deportment into keeping with the society
I am about to enter, the whirl of which amazes me even here, where only
distant murmurs reach my ear. So far I have not gone beyond the garden;
but the Italian opera opens in a few days, and my mother has a box
there. I am crazy with delight at the thought of hearing Italian music
and seeing French acting.

Already I begin to drop convent habits for those of society. I spend the
evening writing to you till the moment for going to bed arrives. This
has been postponed to ten o'clock, the hour at which my mother goes out,
if she is not at the theatre. There are twelve theatres in Paris.

I am grossly ignorant and I read a lot, but quite indiscriminately, one
book leading to another. I find the names of fresh books on the cover of
the one I am reading; but as I have no one to direct me, I light on some
which are fearfully dull. What modern literature I have read all turns
upon love, the subject which used to bulk so largely in our thoughts,
because it seemed that our fate was determined by man and for man. But
how inferior are these authors to two little girls, known as Sweetheart
and Darling--otherwise Renee and Louise. Ah! my love, what wretched
plots, what ridiculous situations, and what poverty of sentiment!
Two books, however, have given me wonderful pleasure--_Corinne_ and
_Adolphe_. Apropos of this, I asked my father one day whether it would
be possible for me to see Mme. de Stael. My father, mother, and Alphonse
all burst out laughing, and Alphonse said:

"Where in the world has she sprung from?"

To which my father replied:

"What fools we are! She springs from the Carmelites."

"My child, Mme. de Stael is dead," said my mother gently.

When I finished _Adolphe_, I asked Miss Griffith how a woman could be