prompt:
Chapter: [ACRES, as just dressed, and DAVID.]

ACRES
Indeed, David--do you think I become it so?

DAVID
You are quite another creature, believe me, master, by the mass! an'
we've any luck we shall see the Devon mon kerony in all the print-shops
in Bath!

ACRES
Dress does make a difference, David.

DAVID
'Tis all in all, I think.--Difference! why, an' you were to go now to
Clod-Hall, I am certain the old lady wouldn't know you: Master Butler
wouldn't believe his own eyes, and Mrs. Pickle would cry, Lard presarve
me! our dairy-maid would come giggling to the door, and I warrant Dolly
Tester, your honour's favourite, would blush like my waistcoat.--Oons!
I'll hold a gallon, there ain't a dog in the house but would bark, and
I question whether Phillis would wag a hair of her tail!

ACRES
Ay, David, there's nothing like polishing.

DAVID
So I says of your honour's boots; but the boy never heeds me!

ACRES
But, David, has Mr. De-la-grace been here? I must rub up my balancing,
and chasing, and boring.

DAVID
I'll call again, sir.

ACRES
Do--and see if there are any letters for me at the post-office.

DAVID
I will.--By the mass, I can't help looking at your head!--if I hadn't
been by at the cooking, I wish I may die if I should have known the
dish again myself! [Exit.]

ACRES
[Practising a dancing-step.] Sink, slide--coupee.--Confound the first
inventors of cotillions! say I--they are as bad as algebra to us country
gentlemen--I can walk a minuet easy enough when I am forced!--and I
have been accounted a good stick in a country-dance.--Odds jigs and
tabors! I never valued your cross-over to couple--figure in--right and
left--and I'd foot it with e'er a captain in the county!--but these
outlandish heathen allemandes and cotillions are quite beyond me!--I
shall never prosper at 'em, that's sure--mine are true-born English
legs--they don't understand their curst French lingo!--their _pas_
this, and _pas_ that, and _pas_ t'other!--damn me! my feet don't like
to be called paws! no, 'tis certain I have most Antigallican toes!

[Enter SERVANT.]

SERVANT
Here is Sir Lucius O'Trigger to wait on you, sir.

ACRES
Show him in.

[Exit SERVANT.]

[Enter Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER.]

Sir LUCIUS
Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you.

ACRES
My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands.

Sir LUCIUS
Pray, my friend, what has brought you so suddenly to Bath?

ACRES
Faith! I have followed Cupid's Jack-a-lantern, and find myself in a
quagmire at last.--In short, I have been very ill used, Sir Lucius.--I
don't choose to mention names, but look on me as on a very ill-used
gentleman.

Sir LUCIUS
Pray what is the case?--I ask no names.

ACRES
Mark me, Sir Lucius, I fall as deep as need be in love with a young
lady--her friends take my part--I follow her to Bath--send word of my
arrival; and receive answer, that the lady is to be otherwise disposed
of.--This, Sir Lucius, I call being ill-used.

Sir LUCIUS
Very ill, upon my conscience.--Pray, can you divine the cause of it?

ACRES
Why, there's the matter; she has another lover, one Beverley, who, I am
told, is now in Bath.--Odds slanders and lies! he must be at the bottom
of it.

Sir LUCIUS
A rival in the case, is there?--and you think he has supplanted you
unfairly?

ACRES
Unfairly! to be sure he has. He never could have done it fairly.

Sir LUCIUS
Then sure you know what is to be done!

ACRES
Not I, upon my soul!

Sir LUCIUS
We wear no swords here, but you understand me.

ACRES
What! fight him!

Sir LUCIUS
Ay, to be sure: what can I mean else?

ACRES
But he has given me no provocation.

Sir LUCIUS
Now, I think he has given you the greatest provocation in the world.
Can a man commit a more heinous offence against another than to fall in
love with the same woman? Oh, by my soul! it is the most unpardonable
breach of friendship.

ACRES
Breach of friendship! ay, ay; but I have no acquaintance with this man.
I never saw him in my life.

Sir LUCIUS
That's no argument at all--he has the less right then to take such a
liberty.

ACRES
Gad, that's true--I grow full of anger, Sir Lucius!--I fire apace! Odds
hilts and blades! I find a man may have a deal of valour in him, and
not know it! But couldn't I contrive to have a little right of my side?

Sir LUCIUS
What the devil signifies right, when your honour is concerned? Do you
think Achilles, or my little Alexander the Great, ever inquired where
the right lay? No, by my soul, they drew their broad-swords, and left
the lazy sons of peace to settle the justice of it.

ACRES
Your words are a grenadier's march to my heart! I believe courage must
be catching! I certainly do feel a kind of valour rising as it were--a
kind of courage, as I may say.--Odds flints, pans, and triggers! I'll
challenge him directly.

Sir LUCIUS
Ah, my little friend, if I had Blunderbuss Hall here, I could show you
a range of ancestry, in the O'Trigger line, that would furnish the new
room; every one of whom had killed his man!--For though the
mansion-house and dirty acres have slipped through my fingers, I thank
heaven our honour and the family-pictures are as fresh as ever.

ACRES
O, Sir Lucius! I have had ancestors too!--every man of 'em colonel or
captain in the militia!--Odds balls and barrels! say no more--I'm
braced for it. The thunder of your words has soured the milk of human
kindness in my breast;--Zounds! as the man in the play says, _I could
do such deeds!_

Sir LUCIUS
Come, come, there must be no passion at all in the case--these things
should always be done civilly.

ACRES
I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius--I must be in a rage.--Dear Sir
Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you love me. Come, here's pen and
paper.--[Sits down to write.] I would the ink were red!--Indite, I say,
indite!--How shall I begin? Odds bullets and blades! I'll write a good
bold hand, however.

Sir LUCIUS
Pray compose yourself.

ACRES
Come--now, shall I begin with an oath? Do, Sir Lucius, let me begin
with a damme.

Sir LUCIUS
Pho! pho! do the thing decently, and like a Christian. Begin now--_Sir
----_

ACRES
That's too civil by half.

Sir LUCIUS
_To prevent the confusion that might arise----_

ACRES
Well----

Sir LUCIUS
_From our both addressing the same lady----_

ACRES
Ay, there's the reason--_same_ lady--well----

Sir LUCIUS
_I shall expect the honour of your company----_

ACRES
Zounds! I'm not asking him to dinner.

Sir LUCIUS
Pray be easy.

ACRES
Well, then, _honour of your company----_

Sir LUCIUS
_To settle our pretensions----_

ACRES
Well.

Sir LUCIUS
Let me see, ay, King's-Mead-Fields will do--_in King's-Mead-Fields._

ACRES
So, that's done--Well, I'll fold it up presently; my own crest--a hand
and dagger shall be the seal.

Sir LUCIUS
You see now this little explanation will put a stop at once to all
confusion or misunderstanding that might arise between you.

ACRES
Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding.

Sir LUCIUS
Now, I'll leave you to fix your own time.--Take my advice, and you'll
decide it this evening if you can; then let the worst come of it,
'twill be off your mind to-morrow.

ACRES
Very true.

Sir LUCIUS
So I shall see nothing of you, unless it be by letter, till the
evening.--I would do myself the honour to carry your message; but, to
tell you a secret, I believe I shall have just such another affair on
my own hands. There is a gay captain here, who put a jest on me lately,
at the expense of my country, and I only want to fall in with the
gentleman, to call him out.

ACRES
By my valour, I should like to see you fight first! Odds life! I should
like to see you kill him if it was only to get a little lesson.

Sir LUCIUS
I shall be very proud of instructing you.--Well for the present--but
remember now, when you meet your antagonist, do every thing in a mild
and agreeable manner.--Let your courage be as keen, but at the same
time as polished, as your sword.

[Exeunt severally.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Acres' lodgings. Acres is there with David, his servant. They are discussing the fact that Acres has recently changed his wardrobe to be more sophisticated and urbane, after years of country living. Acres then talks about how he likes to dance in a country style, when they are interrupted by the arrival of Lucius O'Trigger. Lucius comes in and greets Acres, asking what has brought him to Bath. Acres tells him that he is in love with a woman, without mentioning her name. He tells Lucius that he has a rival named Beverley, who is also in love with the woman. Lucius encourages Acres to fight Beverley, but Acres insists, ". he has given me no provocation. Lucius insists that the fact that they love the same woman is provocation enough, and begins to stoke some animosity in Acres, who becomes determined to challenge Beverley to a duel. He becomes impassioned and sits down to write a letter. In the letter, he summons Beverley to King's-Mead-Fields. Before he leaves, Lucius tells Acres that he has a rival he would like to fight as well.


prompt:
Chapter: [Mrs. MALAPROP and LYDIA.]

Mrs. MALAPROP
Why, thou perverse one!--tell me what you can object to him? Isn't he a
handsome man?--tell me that. A genteel man? a pretty figure of a man?

LYDIA
[Aside.] She little thinks whom she is praising!--[Aloud.] So is
Beverley, ma'am.

Mrs. MALAPROP
No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't become a young
woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman!

LYDIA
[Aside.] Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen.

Mrs. MALAPROP
Then he's so well bred;--so full of alacrity, and adulation!--and has
so much to say for himself:--in such good language, too! His
physiognomy so grammatical! Then his presence is so noble! I protest,
when I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play:--
   "Hesperian curls--the front of Job himself!--
   An eye, like March, to threaten at command!--
   A station, like Harry Mercury, new----"
Something about kissing--on a hill--however, the similitude struck me
directly.

LYDIA
[Aside.] How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her
mistake!

[Enter SERVANT.]

SERVANT
Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am.

Mrs. MALAPROP
Show them up here.----

[Exit SERVANT.]

Now, Lydia, I insist on your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show
your good breeding, at least, though you have forgot your duty.

LYDIA
Madam, I have told you my resolution!--I shall not only give him no
encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him. [Flings
herself into a chair, with her face from the door.]

[Enter Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE and CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.]

Sir ANTHONY
Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate the frowns of unrelenting
beauty,--and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow.--I don't
know what's the matter; but if I had not held him by force, he'd have
given me the slip.

Mrs. MALAPROP
You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am ashamed for
the cause!--[Aside to LYDIA.] Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!--pay
your respects!

Sir ANTHONY
I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected on the worth of this
gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my
alliance.--[Aside to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] Now, Jack, speak to her.

ABSOLUTE
[Aside.] What the devil shall I do!--[Aside to Sir ANTHONY.] You see,
sir, she won't even look at me whilst you are here. I knew she
wouldn't! I told you so. Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together!
[Seems to expostulate with his father.]

LYDIA
[Aside.] I wonder I ha'n't heard my aunt exclaim yet! sure she can't
have looked at him!--perhaps the regimentals are alike, and she is
something blind.

Sir ANTHONY
I say, sir, I won't stir a foot yet!

Mrs. MALAPROP
I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece is very
small.--[Aside to LYDIA.] Turn round, Lydia: I blush for you!

Sir ANTHONY
May I not flatter myself, that Miss Languish will assign what cause of
dislike she can have to my son!--[Aside to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] Why don't
you begin, Jack?--Speak, you puppy--speak!

Mrs. MALAPROP
It is impossible, Sir Anthony, she can have any. She will not say she
has.--[Aside to LYDIA.] Answer, hussy! why don't you answer?

Sir ANTHONY
Then, madam, I trust that a childish and hasty predilection will be no
bar to Jack's happiness.--[Aside to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] Zounds! sirrah!
why don't you speak?

LYDIA
[Aside.] I think my lover seems as little inclined to conversation as
myself.--How strangely blind my aunt must be!

ABSOLUTE
Hem! hem! madam--hem!--[Attempts to speak, then returns to Sir
ANTHONY.] Faith! sir, I am so confounded!--and--so--so--confused!--I
told you I should be so, sir--I knew it.--The--the--tremor of my
passion entirely takes away my presence of mind.

Sir ANTHONY
But it don't take away your voice, fool, does it?--Go up, and speak to
her directly!

[CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE makes signs to Mrs. MALAPROP to leave them together.]

Mrs. MALAPROP
Sir Anthony, shall we leave them together?--[Aside to LYDIA.] Ah! you
stubborn little vixen!

Sir ANTHONY
Not yet, ma'am, not yet!--[Aside to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] What the devil
are you at? unlock your jaws, sirrah, or----

ABSOLUTE
[Aside.] Now Heaven send she may be too sullen to look round!--I must
disguise my voice.--[Draws near LYDIA, and speaks in a low hoarse
tone.] Will not Miss Languish lend an ear to the mild accents of true
love? Will not----

Sir ANTHONY
What the devil ails the fellow? why don't you speak out?--not stand
croaking like a frog in a quinsy!

ABSOLUTE
The--the--excess of my awe, and my--my--my modesty, quite choke me!

Sir ANTHONY
Ah! your modesty again!--I'll tell you what, Jack; if you don't speak
out directly, and glibly too, I shall be in such a rage!--Mrs.
Malaprop, I wish the lady would favour us with something more than a
side-front.

[Mrs. MALAPROP seems to chide LYDIA.]

ABSOLUTE
[Aside.] So all will out, I see!--[Goes up to LYDIA, speaks softly.] Be
not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present.

LYDIA
[Aside.] Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice! Sure he can't have imposed on
Sir Anthony too!--[Looks round by degrees, then starts up.] Is this
possible!--my Beverley!--how can this be?--my Beverley?

ABSOLUTE
[Aside.] Ah! 'tis all over.

Sir ANTHONY
Beverley!--the devil--Beverley!--What can the girl mean?--this is my
son, Jack Absolute.

Mrs. MALAPROP
For shame, hussy! for shame! your head runs so on that fellow, that you
have him always in your eyes!--beg Captain Absolute's pardon directly.

LYDIA
I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley!

Sir ANTHONY
Zounds! the girl's mad!--her brain's turned by reading.

Mrs. MALAPROP
O' my conscience, I believe so!--What do you mean by Beverley,
hussy?--You saw Captain Absolute before to-day; there he is--your
husband that shall be.

LYDIA
With all my soul, ma'am--when I refuse my Beverley----

Sir ANTHONY
Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!--or has this fellow been playing us a
rogue's trick!--Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you?

ABSOLUTE
Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I'll endeavour to
recollect.

Sir ANTHONY
Are you my son or not?--answer for your mother, you dog, if you won't
for me.

Mrs. MALAPROP
Ay, sir, who are you? O mercy! I begin to suspect!----

ABSOLUTE
[Aside.] Ye powers of impudence, befriend me!--[Aloud.] Sir Anthony,
most assuredly I am your wife's son: and that I sincerely believe
myself to be yours also, I hope my duty has always shown.--Mrs.
Malaprop, I am your most respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add
affectionate nephew.--I need not tell my Lydia, that she sees her
faithful Beverley, who, knowing the singular generosity of her temper,
assumed that name and station, which has proved a test of the most
disinterested love, which he now hopes to enjoy in a more elevated
character.

LYDIA
[Sullenly.] So!--there will be no elopement after all!

Sir ANTHONY
Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! to do you justice,
I think I never saw a piece of more consummate assurance!

ABSOLUTE
Oh, you flatter me, sir--you compliment--'tis my modesty, you know,
sir,--my modesty that has stood in my way.

Sir ANTHONY
Well, I am glad you are not the dull, insensible varlet you pretended
to be, however!--I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you
dog--I am. So this was your _penitence_, your _duty_ and
_obedience!_--I thought it was damned sudden!--_You never heard their
names before_, not you!--_what, the Languishes of Worcestershire_,
hey?--_if you could please me in the affair it was all you
desired!_--Ah! you dissembling villain!--What!--[Pointing to Lydia]
_She squints, don't she?--a little red-haired girl!_--hey?--Why, you
hypocritical young rascal!--I wonder you ain't ashamed to hold up your
head!

ABSOLUTE
'Tis with difficulty, sir.--I am confused--very much confused, as you
must perceive.

Mrs. MALAPROP
O Lud! Sir Anthony!--a new light breaks in upon me!--hey!--how! what!
captain, did you write the letters then?--What--am I to thank you for
the elegant compilation of _an old weather-beaten she-dragon_--hey!--O
mercy!--was it you that reflected on my parts of speech?

ABSOLUTE
Dear sir! my modesty will be overpowered at last, if you don't assist
me--I shall certainly not be able to stand it!

Sir ANTHONY
Come, come, Mrs. Malaprop, we must forget and forgive;--odds life!
matters have taken so clever a turn all of a sudden, that I could find
in my heart to be so good-humoured! and so gallant! hey! Mrs. Malaprop!

Mrs. MALAPROP
Well, Sir Anthony, since you desire it, we will not anticipate the
past!--so mind, young people--our retrospection will be all to the
future.

Sir ANTHONY
Come, we must leave them together; Mrs. Malaprop, they long to fly into
each other's arms, I warrant!--Jack--isn't the cheek as I said, hey?--
and the eye, you rogue!--and the lip--hey? Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we'll
not disturb their tenderness--theirs is the time of life for
happiness!--_Youth's the season made for joy_--[Sings.]--hey!--Odds
life! I'm in such spirits,--I don't know what I could not do!--Permit
me, ma'am--[Gives his hand to Mrs. MALAPROP.] Tol-de-rol--'gad, I
should like to have a little fooling myself--Tol-de-rol! de-rol.

[Exit, singing and handing Mrs. MALAPROP.--LYDIA sits sullenly in her
chair.]

ABSOLUTE
[Aside.] So much thought bodes me no good.--[Aloud.] So grave, Lydia!

LYDIA
Sir!

ABSOLUTE
[Aside.] So!--egad! I thought as much!--that damned monosyllable has
froze me!--[Aloud.] What, Lydia, now that we are as happy in our
friends' consent, as in our mutual vows----

LYDIA
[Peevishly.] Friends' consent indeed!

ABSOLUTE
Come, come, we must lay aside some of our romance--a little wealth and
comfort may be endured after all. And for your fortune, the lawyers
shall make such settlements as----

LYDIA
Lawyers! I hate lawyers!

ABSOLUTE
Nay, then, we will not wait for their lingering forms, but instantly
procure the licence, and----

LYDIA
The licence!--I hate licence!

ABSOLUTE
Oh my love! be not so unkind!--thus let me entreat---- [Kneeling.]

LYDIA
Psha!--what signifies kneeling, when you know I must have you?

ABSOLUTE
[Rising.] Nay, madam, there shall be no constraint upon your
inclinations, I promise you.--If I have lost your heart--I resign the
rest--[Aside.] 'Gad, I must try what a little spirit will do.

LYDIA
[Rising.] Then, sir, let me tell you, the interest you had there was
acquired by a mean, unmanly imposition, and deserves the punishment of
fraud.--What, you have been treating me like a child!--humouring my
romance! and laughing, I suppose, at your success!

ABSOLUTE
You wrong me, Lydia, you wrong me--only hear----

LYDIA
So, while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and
flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them all--behold my
hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt's consent and
approbation--and I am myself the only dupe at last!--[Walking about in
a heat.] But here, sir, here is the picture--Beverley's picture!
[taking a miniature from her bosom] which I have worn, night and day,
in spite of threats and entreaties!--There, sir [Flings it to him.];
and be assured I throw the original from my heart as easily.

ABSOLUTE
Nay, nay, ma'am, we will not differ as to that.--Here [taking out a
picture], here is Miss Lydia Languish.--What a difference!--ay, there
is the heavenly assenting smile that first gave soul and spirit to my
hopes!--those are the lips which sealed a vow, as yet scarce dry in
Cupid's calendar! and there the half-resentful blush, that would have
checked the ardour of my thanks!--Well, all that's past!--all over
indeed!--There, madam--in beauty, that copy is not equal to you, but in
my mind its merit over the original, in being still the same, is
such--that--I cannot find in my heart to part with it. [Puts it up
again.]

LYDIA
[Softening.] 'Tis your own doing, sir--I, I, I suppose you are
perfectly satisfied.

ABSOLUTE
O, most certainly--sure, now, this is much better than being in
love!--ha! ha! ha!--there's some spirit in this!--What signifies
breaking some scores of solemn promises:--all that's of no consequence,
you know. To be sure people will say, that miss don't know her own
mind--but never mind that! Or, perhaps, they may be ill-natured enough
to hint, that the gentleman grew tired of the lady and forsook her--but
don't let that fret you.

LYDIA
There is no bearing his insolence. [Bursts into tears.]

[Re-enter Mrs. MALAPROP and Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.]

Mrs. MALAPROP
Come, we must interrupt your billing and cooing awhile.

LYDIA
This is worse than your treachery and deceit, you base ingrate!
[Sobbing.]

Sir ANTHONY
What the devil's the matter now?--Zounds! Mrs. Malaprop, this is the
oddest billing and cooing I ever heard!--but what the deuce is the
meaning of it?--I am quite astonished!

ABSOLUTE
Ask the lady, sir.

Mrs. MALAPROP
O mercy!--I'm quite analyzed, for my part!--Why, Lydia, what is the
reason of this?

LYDIA
Ask the gentleman, ma'am.

Sir ANTHONY
Zounds! I shall be in a frenzy!--Why, Jack, you are not come out to be
any one else, are you?

Mrs. MALAPROP
Ay, sir, there's no more trick, is there?--you are not like Cerberus,
three gentlemen at once, are you?

ABSOLUTE
You'll not let me speak--I say the lady can account for this much much
better than I can.

LYDIA
Ma'am, you once commanded me never to think of Beverley again--there is
the man--I now obey you: for, from this moment, I renounce him for
ever. [Exit.]

Mrs. MALAPROP
O mercy! and miracles! what a turn here is--why, sure, captain, you
haven't behaved disrespectfully to my niece.

Sir ANTHONY
Ha! ha! ha!--ha! ha! ha!--now I see it. Ha! ha! ha!--now I see it--you
have been too lively, Jack.

ABSOLUTE
Nay, sir, upon my word----

Sir ANTHONY
Come, no lying, Jack--I'm sure 'twas so.

Mrs. MALAPROP
O Lud! Sir Anthony!--O fy, captain!

ABSOLUTE
Upon my soul, ma'am----

Sir ANTHONY
Come, no excuses, Jack; why, your father, you rogue, was so before
you:--the blood of the Absolutes was always impatient.--Ha! ha! ha!
poor little Lydia! why, you've frightened her, you dog, you have.

ABSOLUTE
By all that's good, sir----

Sir ANTHONY
Zounds! say no more, I tell you--Mrs. Malaprop shall make your peace.
You must make his peace, Mrs. Malaprop:--you must tell her 'tis Jack's
way--tell her 'tis all our ways--it runs in the blood of our family!
Come away, Jack--Ha! ha! ha!--Mrs. Malaprop--a young villain! [Pushing
him out.]

Mrs. MALAPROP
O! Sir Anthony!--O fy, captain!

[Exeunt severally.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: At Acres' lodgings, David tries to dissuade Acres from fighting a duel, but Acres is insistent that he fight. David, no gentleman will ever risk the loss of his honour. he says, but David insists that because Acres risks death, it is not worth it, saying, "Under favour, the surest way of not disgracing them, is to keep as long as you can out of their company. A servant enters and announces the arrival of Jack Absolute. Jack comes in and asks Acres why he called him there, and Acres hands him the challenge for Ensign Beverley. Jack agrees to deliver the challenge, when suddenly the servant comes back in and announces the arrival of Anthony Absolute, looking for Jack. Before Jack leaves, Acres asks him to tell Beverley that he is "a determined dog


prompt:
Chapter: [Enter Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER.]

Sir LUCIUS
I wonder where this Captain Absolute hides himself! Upon my conscience!
these officers are always in one's way in love affairs:--I remember I
might have married Lady Dorothy Carmine, if it had not been for a
little rogue of a major, who ran away with her before she could get a
sight of me! And I wonder too what it is the ladies can see in them to
be so fond of them--unless it be a touch of the old serpent in 'em,
that makes the little creatures be caught, like vipers, with a bit of
red cloth. Ha! isn't this the captain coming?--faith it is!--There is a
probability of succeeding about that fellow, that is mighty provoking!
Who the devil is he talking to? [Steps aside.]

[Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.]

ABSOLUTE
[Aside.] To what fine purpose I have been plotting! a noble reward for
all my schemes, upon my soul!--a little gipsy!--I did not think her
romance could have made her so damned absurd either. 'Sdeath, I never
was in a worse humour in my life!--I could cut my own throat, or any
other person's, with the greatest pleasure in the world!

Sir LUCIUS
Oh, faith! I'm in the luck of it. I never could have found him in a
sweeter temper for my purpose--to be sure I'm just come in the nick!
Now to enter into conversation with him, and so quarrel
genteelly.--[Goes up to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] With regard to that matter,
captain, I must beg leave to differ in opinion with you.

ABSOLUTE
Upon my word, then, you must be a very subtle disputant:--because, sir,
I happened just then to be giving no opinion at all.

Sir LUCIUS
That's no reason. For give me leave to tell you, a man may think an
untruth as well as speak one.

ABSOLUTE
Very true, sir; but if a man never utters his thoughts, I should think
they might stand a chance of escaping controversy.

Sir LUCIUS
Then, sir, you differ in opinion with me, which amounts to the same
thing.

ABSOLUTE
Hark'ee, Sir Lucius; if I had not before known you to be a gentleman,
upon my soul, I should not have discovered it at this interview: for
what you can drive at, unless you mean to quarrel with me, I cannot
conceive!

Sir LUCIUS
I humbly thank you, sir, for the quickness of your
apprehension.--[Bowing.] You have named the very thing I would be at.

ABSOLUTE
Very well, sir; I shall certainly not balk your inclinations.--But I
should be glad you would please to explain your motives.

Sir LUCIUS
Pray, sir, be easy; the quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands;
we should only spoil it by trying to explain it. However, your memory
is very short, or you could not have forgot an affront you passed on me
within this week. So, no more, but name your time and place.

ABSOLUTE
Well, sir, since you are so bent on it, the sooner the better; let it
be this evening--here, by the Spring Gardens. We shall scarcely be
interrupted.

Sir LUCIUS
Faith! that same interruption in affairs of this nature shows very
great ill-breeding. I don't know what's the reason, but in England if a
thing of this kind gets wind, people make such a pother, that a
gentleman can never fight in peace and quietness. However, if it's the
same to you, captain, I should take it as a particular kindness if
you'd let us meet in King's-Mead-Fields, as a little business will call
me there about six o'clock, and I may despatch both matters at once.

ABSOLUTE
'Tis the same to me exactly. A little after six, then, we will discuss
this matter more seriously.

Sir LUCIUS
If you please, sir; there will be very pretty small-sword light, though
it won't do for a long shot. So that matter's settled, and my mind's at
ease! [Exit.]

[Enter FAULKLAND.]

ABSOLUTE
Well met! I was going to look for you. O Faulkland! all the demons of
spite and disappointment have conspired against me! I'm so vex'd, that
if I had not the prospect of a resource in being knocked o' the head
by-and-by, I should scarce have spirits to tell you the cause.

FAULKLAND
What can you mean?--Has Lydia changed her mind?--I should have thought
her duty and inclination would now have pointed to the same object.

ABSOLUTE
Ay, just as the eyes do of a person who squints: when her love-eye was
fixed on me, t'other, her eye of duty, was finely obliqued: but when
duty bid her point that the same way, off t'other turned on a swivel,
and secured its retreat with a frown!

FAULKLAND
But what's the resource you----

ABSOLUTE
Oh, to wind up the whole, a good-natured Irishman here has--[Mimicking
Sir LUCIUS] begged leave to have the pleasure of cutting my throat; and
I mean to indulge him--that's all.

FAULKLAND
Prithee, be serious!

ABSOLUTE
'Tis fact, upon my soul! Sir Lucius O'Trigger--you know him by
sight--for some affront, which I am sure I never intended, has obliged
me to meet him this evening at six o'clock: 'tis on that account I
wished to see you; you must go with me.

FAULKLAND
Nay, there must be some mistake, sure. Sir Lucius shall explain
himself, and I dare say matters may be accommodated. But this evening
did you say? I wish it had been any other time.

ABSOLUTE
Why? there will be light enough: there will (as Sir Lucius says) be
very pretty small-sword light, though it will not do for a long shot.
Confound his long shots.

FAULKLAND
But I am myself a good deal ruffled by a difference I have had with
Julia. My vile tormenting temper has made me treat her so cruelly, that
I shall not be myself till we are reconciled.

ABSOLUTE
By heavens! Faulkland, you don't deserve her!

[Enter SERVANT, gives FAULKLAND a letter, and exit.]

FAULKLAND
Oh, Jack! this is from Julia. I dread to open it! I fear it may be to
take a last leave!--perhaps to bid me return her letters, and
restore--Oh, how I suffer for my folly!

ABSOLUTE
Here, let me see.--[Takes the letter and opens it.] Ay, a final
sentence, indeed!--'tis all over with you, faith!

FAULKLAND
Nay, Jack, don't keep me in suspense!

ABSOLUTE
Here then--[Reads.] _As I am convinced that my dear Faulkland's own
reflections have already upbraided him for his last unkindness to me, I
will not add a word on the subject. I wish to speak with you as soon as
possible. Yours ever and truly,_ Julia. There's stubbornness and
resentment for you!--[Gives him the letter.] Why, man, you don't seem
one whit the happier at this!

FAULKLAND
O yes, I am; but--but----

ABSOLUTE
Confound your buts! you never hear any thing that would make another
man bless himself, but you immediately damn it with a but!

FAULKLAND
Now, Jack, as you are my friend, own honestly--don't you think there is
something forward, something indelicate, in this haste to forgive?
Women should never sue for reconciliation: that should always come from
us. They should retain their coldness till wooed to kindness; and their
pardon, like their love, should "not unsought be won."

ABSOLUTE
I have not patience to listen to you! thou'rt incorrigible! so say no
more on the subject. I must go to settle a few matters. Let me see you
before six, remember, at my lodgings. A poor industrious devil like me,
who have toiled, and drudged, and plotted to gain my ends, and am at
last disappointed by other people's folly, may in pity be allowed to
swear and grumble a little; but a captious sceptic in love, a slave to
fretfulness and whim, who has no difficulties but of his own creating,
is a subject more fit for ridicule than compassion! [Exit.]

FAULKLAND
I feel his reproaches; yet I would not change this too exquisite nicety
for the gross content with which he tramples on the thorns of love! His
engaging me in this duel has started an idea in my head, which I will
instantly pursue. I'll use it as the touchstone of Julia's sincerity
and disinterestedness. If her love prove pure and sterling ore, my name
will rest on it with honour; and once I've stamped it there, I lay
aside my doubts for ever! But if the dross of selfishness, the alloy of
pride, predominate, 'twill be best to leave her as a toy for some less
cautious fool to sigh for! [Exit.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: At Malaprop's lodgings, Malaprop and Lydia discuss Jack Absolute and Beverley. Malaprop thinks Jack is very handsome indeed, but Lydia stubbornly insists that she still loves Beverley. A servant announces the arrival of Anthony and Jack Absolute, and Malaprop tells him to bring them up, before telling Lydia to "show good breeding. Lydia is determined to be impolite to Jack, so much so that she decides to not even look at him when he comes in, looking away from the door. Anthony and Jack enter and Jack notices that Lydia is refusing to look at him. He asks his father to leave them alone, but he will not, entreating his son to speak to Lydia. Finally, Jack resolves to alter his voice and speaks to Lydia in a "low hoarse tone. With no other hope, Jack speaks to Lydia in an aside in his own voice, telling her to "suppress all surprise at present. When Lydia turns around and sees him, she recognizes him as Beverley, which confuses Malaprop and Anthony. Jack admits that, indeed, he has disguised himself as Beverley to win Lydia's affection, and Lydia disappointedly says, "So. there will be no elopement after all. Anthony is mad that Jack would mount such an elaborate charade and compromise his reputation. Malaprop is also offended by Jack's ruse, realizing that it was he who wrote such unflattering descriptions of her in his letters. Anthony encourages Malaprop to forgive them and delight in the fact that they are in love, and the two elders leave the room, singing. Jack goes to Lydia and notices that she is disappointed that he is actually a wealthy young captain. She says to him, "Then, sir, let me tell you, the interest you had there was acquired by a mean, unmanly imposition, and deserves the punishment of fraud. What, you have been treating me like a child. humouring my romance. and laughing, I suppose, at your success. She bemoans the fact that she thought she was rebelling against her family, but was actually falling in love with precisely the person her aunt and father want her to marry. As Jack flatters Lydia and looks at a picture of her, she bursts into tears, and storms out of the room, vowing not to marry him


prompt:
Chapter: No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character
of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were
all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being
neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name
was Richard--and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable
independence besides two good livings--and he was not in the least
addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful
plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a
good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and
instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might
expect, she still lived on--lived to have six children more--to see them
growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family
of ten children will be always called a fine family, where there are
heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had
little other right to the word, for they were in general very plain, and
Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin
awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong
features--so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism
seemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred
cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of
infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a
rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered
flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief--at least
so it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she was
forbidden to take. Such were her propensities--her abilities were quite
as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything
before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often
inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in
teaching her only to repeat the "Beggar's Petition"; and after all, her
next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine
was always stupid--by no means; she learnt the fable of "The Hare and
Many Friends" as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her
to learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was
very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight
years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it; and Mrs.
Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in
spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which
dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's life.
Her taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever she could obtain
the outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon any other odd
piece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing houses
and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing
and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her
proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in
both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!--for
with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither
a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever
quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions
of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and
cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the
green slope at the back of the house.

Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending;
she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion improved,
her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more
animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to
an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart; she had
now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother remark
on her personal improvement. "Catherine grows quite a good-looking
girl--she is almost pretty today," were words which caught her ears now
and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty is an
acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the
first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever
receive.

Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in
lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were
inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful
that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should
prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about
the country at the age of fourteen, to books--or at least books of
information--for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be
gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she
had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen
she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines
must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so
serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.

From Pope, she learnt to censure those who

   "bear about the mockery of woe."

From Gray, that

   "Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
   "And waste its fragrance on the desert air."

From Thompson, that--

   "It is a delightful task
   "To teach the young idea how to shoot."

And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information--amongst
the rest, that--

   "Trifles light as air,
   "Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
   "As proofs of Holy Writ."

That

   "The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
   "In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
   "As when a giant dies."

And that a young woman in love always looks--

   "like Patience on a monument
   "Smiling at Grief."

So far her improvement was sufficient--and in many other points she came
on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought
herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing
a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own
composition, she could listen to other people's performance with very
little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil--she had no
notion of drawing--not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's
profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she fell
miserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not know
her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the
age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could call
forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and
without having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate
and very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange things may be
generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was
not one lord in the neighbourhood; no--not even a baronet. There was not
one family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy
accidentally found at their door--not one young man whose origin
was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no
children.

But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty
surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
to throw a hero in her way.

Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath
for the benefit of a gouty constitution--and his lady, a good-humoured
woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will
not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,
invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,
and Catherine all happiness.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: At the beginning of the novel, we are introduced to Catherine Morland, the daughter of a clergyman and his wife. Catherine has three older brothers and six younger siblings; her family lives comfortably without being well-off. At ten years old, Catherine is described as a "thin awkward figure" with a "sallow skin," but we learn that once she reaches the age of fifteen she is viewed as "almost pretty," a compliment that she yet delights in hearing. Austen gives us a brief account of Catherine's education: her mother gives her lessons at home, but despite all parental efforts, Catherine's accomplishments remain undeniably limited. She shows no talent for piano-playing or any of the other refinements young girls are supposed to perfect in order to attract an eligible suitor. As she gets older, however, Catherine begins to read classic literature, and Austen cites this habit as a measure of Catherine's "improvement. At the age of seventeen, Catherine is invited by her neighbors the Allens to go on a trip to Bath, thus setting the scene for the rest of the novel


prompt:
Chapter: In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's
personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the
difficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be
stated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following
pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is
meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful
and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners just
removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing,
and, when in good looks, pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and
uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.

When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand
alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this
terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her
in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of
the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her
wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve
the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew
so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their
general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her
daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the
following points. "I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up
very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and
I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will
give you this little book on purpose."

Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),
must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante
of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted
on Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of
transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail
of every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything
indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the
Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed
rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the
refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation
of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead
of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an
hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and
promised her more when she wanted it.

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
than a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind
her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.

They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight--her eyes were
here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking
environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted
them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.

They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the
reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter
tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,
probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by her
imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters,
ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.

Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world
who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,
genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great
deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind
were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,
intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted
to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere
and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was
her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our
heroine's entree into life could not take place till after three or four
days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone
was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made
some purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the
important evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her
hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care,
and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should
do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured
through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it
came, but she did not depend on it.

Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom
till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies
squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired
directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.
With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of
her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by
the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,
however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within
her friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the
room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it
seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that
when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be
able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from
being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the
top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing
of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they
moved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion
of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage
behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than
below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the
company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through
them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that
evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had
not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do
in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you
could dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner." For some time
her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were
repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine
grew tired at last, and would thank her no more.

They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence
they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for
tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel
something of disappointment--she was tired of being continually pressed
against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to
interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a
syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in
the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to
join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw
nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more
eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at
which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do
there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.

Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having
preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to
have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin.
For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I
assure you."

"How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine, "not to have a single
acquaintance here!"

"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very
uncomfortable indeed."

"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if
they wondered why we came here--we seem forcing ourselves into their
party."

"Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large
acquaintance here."

"I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to."

"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly.
The Skinners were here last year--I wish they were here now."

"Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you
see."

"No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had
better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my
head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid."

"No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure
there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you
must know somebody."

"I don't, upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance
here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be
so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an
odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back."

After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their
neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light
conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time
that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered
and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.

"Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an
agreeable ball."

"Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a
great yawn.

"I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could
have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if
the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had
come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I
am so sorry she has not had a partner!"

"We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen's
consolation.

The company began to disperse when the dancing was over--enough to leave
space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the
time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part
in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five
minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her
charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her
before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding
her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once
called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and
had the company only seen her three years before, they would now have
thought her exceedingly handsome.

She was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own
hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words
had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter
than she had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she
felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a
true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration
of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and
perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Chapter II opens as Catherine is preparing to depart to for Bath with the Allens. Although Catherine is young and inexperienced, her mother Mrs. Morland exhibits little anxiety about the trip, and her only admonition to her daughter is to stay warm. The journey to Bath is uneventful, but Catherine is full of "eager delight" at the prospects of spending six weeks in the "fine and striking environs" of the resort town. Catherine's host Mrs. Allen is described by Austen as an unremarkable and trifling woman whose sole passion consists of dressing up for formal balls. A few nights after arriving in Bath, Catherine and the Allens attend one of the public balls in the Upper Rooms, a popular social venue. Catherine and Mrs. Allen squeeze through the crowd and finally find themselves looking down at the dancers. Catherine wishes she could dance, but she doesn't know any of the gentlemen present at the ball, and Mrs. Allen's sympathetic recognition of her desire for a partner begin to annoy her. The rest of the night is similarly disappointing until Catherine leaves the ball and hears two young men remarking that she is a "pretty girl. After overhearing the comment, Catherine thinks that she is "perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention


prompt:
Chapter: Every morning now brought its regular duties--shops were to be visited;
some new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be
attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at
everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance
in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after
every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at
all.

They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more
favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to
her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.
He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a
pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not
quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine
felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking
while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found him as
agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with
fluency and spirit--and there was an archness and pleasantry in his
manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. 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."

"You need not give yourself that trouble, sir."

"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."

"Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?"

"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday."

"Have you been to the theatre?"

"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."

"Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again."
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to
laugh. "I see what you think of me," said he 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."

"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 not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by
you. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a
journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your
life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of
every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every
evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,
and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be
described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to
a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as
you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which
largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies
are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing
agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something,
but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping
a journal."

"I have sometimes thought," said Catherine, doubtingly, "whether ladies
do write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is--I should not
think the superiority was always on our side."

"As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
particulars."

"And what are they?"

"A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a
very frequent ignorance of grammar."

"Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way."

"I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better
letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better
landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence
is pretty fairly divided between the sexes."

They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: "My dear Catherine," said she, "do
take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;
I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though
it cost but nine shillings a yard."

"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam," said Mr. Tilney,
looking at the muslin.

"Do you understand muslins, sir?"

"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an
excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a
gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a
prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a
yard for it, and a true Indian muslin."

Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. "Men commonly take so little
notice of those things," said she; "I can never get Mr. Allen to know
one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your
sister, sir."

"I hope I am, madam."

"And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?"

"It is very pretty, madam," said he, gravely examining it; "but I do not
think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray."

"How can you," said Catherine, laughing, "be so--" She had almost said
"strange."

"I am quite of your opinion, sir," replied Mrs. Allen; "and so I told
Miss Morland when she bought it."

"But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other;
Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or
a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister
say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than
she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces."

"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We
are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in
Salisbury, but it is so far to go--eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen
says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than
eight; and it is such a fag--I come back tired to death. Now, here one
can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes."

Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and
she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.
Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
himself a little too much with the foibles of others. "What are you
thinking of so earnestly?" said he, as they walked back to the ballroom;
"not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your
meditations are not satisfactory."

Catherine coloured, and said, "I was not thinking of anything."

"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once
that you will not tell me."

"Well then, I will not."

"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to
tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world
advances intimacy so much."

They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the
lady's side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the
acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her
warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him
when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in
a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a
celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified
in falling in love before the gentleman's love is declared,* it must be
very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the
gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney
might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen's
head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for
his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the
evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured
of Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in
Gloucestershire.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As Chapter III opens, Catherine and Mrs. Allen are settling into Bath and exploring its well-established social life. Catherine attends a second ball, this time in a venue known as the Lower Rooms, and she is introduced to Henry Tilney, a young man of "four or five and twenty" years and a clergyman's son. Catherine is immediately struck by Henry's pleasant and lively demeanor. They sit down to tea after dancing and strike up a conversation. Henry jokes with Catherine about the social code that governs the interactions between male and female dancing partners; his tone is one of mock-regret as he expresses the realization that he has yet to make any of the usual polite inquiries regarding her stay in Bath. In turn, Catherine playfully recites the weekly routine that she has just performed as a visitor: she has been to a ball on Monday, the theater on Tuesday, and to a concert on Wednesday. Henry wonders if he will figure in Catherine's journal entry for the night after they part ways, and they banter over the debates of journal writing and letter writing. Henry and Catherine's conversation is interrupted by Mrs. Allen, who asks Catherine to take a pin out of her muslin gown. Henry reveals that he is skilled at gauging the price and quality of muslin, and Mrs. Allen is delighted at his attention to detail. When the dance closes, Henry takes his leave, and Austen leaves us to wonder if Catherine dreams about him that night


prompt:
Chapter: With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the
next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the
morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile
was demanded--Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath,
except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the
fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and
out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody
wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath
is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after
parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if
we had any acquaintance here."

This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no
particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;
but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied
diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which
she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its
just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of
about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her
attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance
in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time
since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"
This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers
to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of
a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since
their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this
meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented
to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments
on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away
since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in
Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to
make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and
cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive
information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs.
Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen,
in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her
sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different
situations and views--that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant
Taylors', and William at sea--and all of them more beloved and respected
in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs.
Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press
on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to
sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling
herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that
the lace on Mrs. Thorpe's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on
her own.

"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three
smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My
dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted
to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young
woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is
the handsomest."

The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a
short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike
them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest
young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother
Miss Morland is!"

"The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother--and "I should have
known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or
three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe
and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance
with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother
had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of
the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas
vacation with his family, near London.

The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being
considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers,
etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the
pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity,
she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and
take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this
extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while
she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for
the pangs of disappointed love.

Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free
discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy
between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and
quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland,
and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in
discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those
of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify
the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire;
could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only
smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a
crowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they
were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might
have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss
Thorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this
acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left
nothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be
satisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when
they all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss
Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen's house; and that they should
there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after
learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across
the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next
morning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe's
progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the
graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and
dress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had
procured her such a friend.

Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a
good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her
eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by
pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and
dressing in the same style, did very well.

This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity
of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past
adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy
the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of
lords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had
passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The day after they meet at the ball, Catherine seeks out Henry in the Pump Room, the gathering place for Bath's socialites during the day. At first, she is crestfallen when she realizes that he is not there, but soon she is distracted by a new introduction. Mrs. Allen, who is sitting next to Catherine, is greeted by an old school friend named Mrs. Thorpe. The two older women have not seen each other for the past fifteen years, and they are both overeager to share details of their own lives. Mrs. Thorpe has three sons and three daughters, and Catherine is delighted to meet the eldest of the Thorpe girls, a dashing young woman named Isabella. Isabella reveals that her brother John has already Catherine's brother James, and she uses this connection to establish a quick intimacy with Catherine. Catherine admires Isabella for her sophisticated knowledge of the rules of fashion and flirtation. The two young ladies walk back to the Allens and promise to see each other again the next day


prompt:
Chapter: Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly
claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye
for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked in
vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hoped
to be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine weather
were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of
it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,
and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell
their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
joined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to
discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not
a genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday
throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe
the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm
in arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved
conversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again
was Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was
nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,
in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower
Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among the
walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name
was not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must
be gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be so
short! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in a
hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine's imagination around his person
and manners, and increased her anxiety to know more of him. From the
Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bath
before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a subject, however, in which
she often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every
possible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his impression
on her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very
sure that he must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he
must have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore
shortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergyman, "for she
must confess herself very partial to the profession"; and something like
a sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not
demanding the cause of that gentle emotion--but she was not experienced
enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when
delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should
be forced.

Mrs. Allen was now quite happy--quite satisfied with Bath. She had found
some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the family
of a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune, had
found these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her
daily expressions were no longer, "I wish we had some acquaintance in
Bath!" They were changed into, "How glad I am we have met with Mrs.
Thorpe!" and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two
families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never
satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of
Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was
scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of
subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen
of her gowns.

The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick
as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every
gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof
of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other
by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned
up each other's train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the
set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they
were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut
themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not
adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers,
of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the
number of which they are themselves adding--joining with their greatest
enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely
ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she
accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages
with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the
heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I
cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such
effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in
threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us
not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions
have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any
other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has
been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes
are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the
nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who
collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and
Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne,
are eulogized by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish of
decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and
of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to
recommend them. "I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Do not
imagine that I often read novels--It is really very well for a novel."
Such is the common cant. "And what are you reading, Miss--?" "Oh! It is
only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book
with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or
Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest
powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge
of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the
liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the
best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a
volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she
have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be
against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication,
of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of
taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement
of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of
conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language,
too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age
that could endure it.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Catherine and Isabella see each other at the theater the next day, but Catherine's attention is preoccupied by her search to spot Henry. Unfortunately, he is nowhere to be found, although Catherine searches for him in all of Bath's most frequented gathering places. Catherine shares her anxiety to see Henry again with Isabella, and Isabella speculates that he must be a "charming young man. Meanwhile, Mrs. Allen is settling into Bath and expresses her joy at knowing the Thorpe family. She promotes the friendship between Catherine and Isabella at every opportunity. When the two girls are not rambling around town, they enjoy reading novels together. At this point, Austen steps back from her narrative to justify the practice of reading and writing novels at large. She refuses to condemn novels as "trash" and instead praises their merits. She tells us that she is not ashamed to portray her heroine as an avid reader. Indeed, Catherine's involvement in the world of books will have increasing implications for her relationship with Henry as Austen's novel progresses. Chaper VI Isabella and Catherine meet in the Pump Room and discuss the Mysteries of Udolpho, a popular Gothic novel by Anne Radcliffe that Catherine is reading and that Isabella has already read. Isabella gives Catherine a list of book recommendations before their conversation turns to the topic of one of Isabella's friends, Miss Andrews. Isabella insists that Miss Andrews is as "beautiful as an angel" but notes in the same breath that the men do not generally admire her. Catherine and Isabella go on to discuss the mysteries of love. Isabella judges men to be the "most conceited creatures in the world" yet hints that she is fond of a man with a fair complexion who Catherine already knows. Isabella expresses annoyance when she sees two young men staring at her from across the room, and the two girls move away to the other side of the room. However, when Isabella notices that the two young men have left the Pump Room altogether, she turns around "hastily" and notes that "one was a very good-looking young man. Following Isabella's lead, Catherine goes in pursuit of the two young men


prompt:
Chapter: The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in
the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine
days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the
delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which
marked the reasonableness of that attachment.

They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five
minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest
creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at
least this age!"

"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in
very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?"

"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour.
But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy
ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place,
I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off;
it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do
you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in
Milsom Street just now--very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons
instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what
have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on
with Udolpho?"

"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the
black veil."

"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is
behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?"

"Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me--I would not be
told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is
Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like
to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been
to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world."

"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished
Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list
of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."

"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"

"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.
Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the
Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.
Those will last us some time."

"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all
horrid?"

"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a
sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every
one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with
her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think
her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not
admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it."

"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?"

"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are
really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is
not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told
Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to
tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow
Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable
of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the
difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I
should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are
just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men."

"Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"

"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly
what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly
insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted
yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly--I am sure he
is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella
laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are
indifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman,
who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you"--speaking more
seriously--"your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is
really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the
attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting,
that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend
your feelings."

"But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.
Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again."

"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure
you would be miserable if you thought so!"

"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if
nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear
Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it."

"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but
I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels."

"No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;
but new books do not fall in our way."

"Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I
remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume."

"It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very
entertaining."

"Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.
But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head
tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.
The men take notice of that sometimes, you know."

"But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently.

"Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.
They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with
spirit, and make them keep their distance."

"Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to
me."

"Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited
creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance!
By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always
forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you
like them best dark or fair?"

"I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I
think. Brown--not fair, and--and not very dark."

"Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
description of Mr. Tilney--'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather
dark hair.' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to
complexion--do you know--I like a sallow better than any other. You must
not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance
answering that description."

"Betray you! What do you mean?"

"Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop
the subject."

Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few
moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her
at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's
skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, "For heaven's sake!
Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two
odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really
put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals.
They will hardly follow us there."

Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it
was Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
young men.

"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am
determined I will not look up."

In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her
that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the
pump-room.

"And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round.
"One was a very good-looking young man."

"They went towards the church-yard."

"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you
to going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You
said you should like to see it."

Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added, "perhaps we may overtake
the two young men."

"Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently,
and I am dying to show you my hat."

"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our
seeing them at all."

"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no
notion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil
them."

Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,
to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling
the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit
of the two young men.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As Isabella and Catherine attempt to find the two young men who just left the Pump Room, they run into their brothers, who have just arrived in Bath. John, Isabella's brother, is friends with James Morland from Oxford, and we learn that James is attracted to Isabella. John praises the merits of his horse and engages Catherine to take a carriage ride with him tomorrow. Catherine asks John if he has ever read the Mysteries of Udolpho, but he embarrasses himself by misidentifying its author as Frances Burney, another popular female novelist. The four of them walk to the Thorpe house, and John asks Catherine to be his partner for the dance that night. Catherine is pleased, though Austen notes that she would not have liked him at all if her judgment had been influenced by his enthusiasm to be near her. After leaving the Thorpe house, James reveals to Catherine that he finds Isabella to be a "most amiable girl. While Catherine thinks that her brother came to Bath to visit her, Austen leads us to believe that his purpose was two-fold. Once they return to the Allens, Catherine picks up her novel and begins to read where she left off, while James hurries off to reconvene with his friends