moving her lips as little as possible. Then, bending forward, she pretended to blow on her tea.
Seeing Mr. Tilney’s bemused attention to her mutterings and movements, she hurried to amend: “That is, I mean, cough! Cough!” And she politely cleared her throat to reinforce her point. “Goodness, the tea is rather hot.”
But Mr. Tilney continued to observe her with an expression she could not fathom.
After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with—“I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”
“Tell him nothing!” exclaimed Clarence, or Terence.
“No indeed! you must remain very circumspect in what you say!” echoed Lawrence—or—or someone . . . Catherine was dearly annoyed at this point; she simply wanted to attend carefully to this pleasant gentleman.
“You need not give yourself that trouble, sir,” she therefore said, flatly ignoring the angelic clamor.
“No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air, “Have you been long in Bath, madam?”
“About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.
“Really!” with affected astonishment.
“Why should you be surprised, sir?”
“Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here before, madam?”
“Never, sir.”
“Oh Catherine, you must not divulge—” But the angel was not allowed to finish, since our heroine’s fingers moved a carafe of cream to block his/her/its view and simultaneously just slightly shove him out of the way.
“Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?” continued Mr. Tilney.
“Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”
“Have you been to the theatre?”
“No, she has not!”
“Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”
“To the concert?”
“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”
“Yes—I like it very well.”
“Fie! No, she does not!”
“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again,” said Mr. Tilney.
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to laugh, and also because she was widening her eyes very fiercely at one particular tiny figure of divine light that was leaping with animation and soon likely to topple into her teacup.
“I see what you think of me,” said the gentleman gravely—”I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.”
“My journal!”
“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.”
“Indeed I shall say no such thing,” said Catherine, thankful he knew hardly anything really about the true extent of nonsense or oddity a person could harbor, else he would not be referring thus to himself. . . .
“Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”
“If you please.”
“I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had a great deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary genius—hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say.”
“But, perhaps, I keep no journal.”
“Perhaps you are balancing an angel on your shoulder”—(Catherine nearly
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