“Shall you be at the cotillion ball to-morrow?”

“Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall.”

“I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.” This civility was duly
returned; and they parted—on Miss Tilney’s side with some knowledge of
her new acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the
smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and
the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the
future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the
occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress
is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about
it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her
great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas
before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating
between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the
shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,
from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather
than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of
the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to
the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how
little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their
attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how
unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction
alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the
better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a
something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the
latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the
tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could
not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to
dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every
young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every
young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have
been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from
the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been
anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As
soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began; she
fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as
possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear
him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she
saw nothing of the Tilneys. “Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,” whispered Isabella, “but I
am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively
it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but
you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature,
and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a
moment.”

Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked
away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept
her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her
folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with
the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind,
when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,
by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she
granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went
with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she
believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so
immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had
sought her on purpose!—it did not appear to her that life could supply
any greater felicity. Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a
place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who
stood behind her. “Heyday, Miss Morland!” said he. “What is the meaning
of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”

“I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”

“That is a good one, by Jove! i asked you as soon as I came into the
room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round,
you were gone! this is a cursed shabby trick! i only came for the sake
of dancing with _you_, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever
since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in
the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my
acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the
room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will
quiz me famously.”

“Oh, no; they will never think of _me_, after such a description as
that.”

“By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for
blockheads. What chap have you there?” Catherine satisfied his
curiosity. “Tilney,” he repeated. “Hum—I do not know him. A good figure
of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of
mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A
famous clever animal for the road—only forty guineas. I had fifty minds
to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse
when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not
do for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have
three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take eight
hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in
Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so d—— uncomfortable,
living at an inn.”

This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine’s
attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of
a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said,
“That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with
you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention
of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual
agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness
belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten
themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the
other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage.