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"
She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure; the comedy
so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during the
first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about
her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of
Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite
box, recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer
excite genuine merriment -- no longer keep her whole attention.
Every other look upon an average was directed towards the opposite
box; and, for the space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch
Henry Tilney, without being once able to catch his eye. No longer
could he be suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was
never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes. At length,
however, he did look towards her, and he bowed -- but such a bow!
No smile, no continued observance attended it; his eyes were
immediately returned to their former direction. Catherine was
restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to the box
in which he sat and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings
rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering
her own dignity injured by this ready condemnation -- instead of
proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment
towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all
the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the
past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else
-- she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or at least of
its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining
its cause.

The play concluded -- the curtain fell -- Henry Tilney was no longer
to be seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and
perhaps he might be now coming round to their box. She was right;
in a few minutes he appeared, and, making his way through the then
thinning rows, spoke with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and
her friend. Not with such calmness was he answered by the latter:
"Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to you, and make
my apologies. You must have thought me so rude; but indeed it was
not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me that
Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And
then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have
been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?"

"My dear, you tumble my gown," was Mrs. Allen's reply.

Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away;
it brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance,
and he replied in a tone which retained only a little affected
reserve: "We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us
a pleasant walk after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were
so kind as to look back on purpose."

"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of
such a thing; but I begged Mr.

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