prompt:
Chapter: The progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the events of the evening
was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with
everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily
brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This,
on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary
hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to
be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when there
she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and
from which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh
hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her
acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek
her for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one
so newly arrived in Bath must be met with, and that building she had
already found so favourable for the discovery of female excellence,
and the completion of female intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret
discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably
encouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her plan
for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after
breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment
till the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by
the remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and
incapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great
deal, so she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she
sat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she
heard a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must
observe it aloud, whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or
not. At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste
to the window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there
being two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant,
her brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came
running upstairs, calling out, "Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have
you been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a
coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into,
and now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out
of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was
not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded
hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over."

"What do you mean?" said Catherine. "Where are you all going to?"

"Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree
together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are
going up Claverton Down."

"Something was said about it, I remember," said Catherine, looking at
Mrs. Allen for her opinion; "but really I did not expect you."

"Not expect me! That's a good one! And what a dust you would have made,
if I had not come."

Catherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown
away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any
expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended
by anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again
could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who
thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as
Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to
speak plainer. "Well, ma'am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for
an hour or two? Shall I go?"

"Do just as you please, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with the most
placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get
ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed
the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her
praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen's admiration of his gig;
and then receiving her friend's parting good wishes, they both hurried
downstairs. "My dearest creature," cried Isabella, to whom the duty
of friendship immediately called her before she could get into the
carriage, "you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was
afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a
thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to
be off."

Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear
her friend exclaim aloud to James, "What a sweet girl she is! I quite
dote on her."

"You will not be frightened, Miss Morland," said Thorpe, as he handed
her in, "if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off.
He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest
for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,
playful as can be, but there is no vice in him."

Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too
late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so,
resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted
knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down
by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the
horse's head was bid in an important voice "to let him go," and off they
went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or
anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke
her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately
made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely
owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the
reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had
directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that
with such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to
alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely
on being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that
the animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without
showing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and
(considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means
alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and
exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February,
with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded
their first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe's saying very
abruptly, "Old Allen is as rich as a Jew--is not he?" Catherine did not
understand him--and he repeated his question, adding in explanation,
"Old Allen, the man you are with."

"Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich."

"And no children at all?"

"No--not any."

"A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?"

"My godfather! No."

"But you are always very much with them."

"Yes, very much."

"Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,
and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for
nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?"

"His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a
very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?"

"Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men's being in liquor.
Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of
this--that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not
be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous
good thing for us all."

"I cannot believe it."

"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the
hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to
be. Our foggy climate wants help."

"And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in
Oxford."

"Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks
there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints
at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at
the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five
pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way.
Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with
anything like it in Oxford--and that may account for it. But this will
just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there."

"Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine warmly, "and that is, that
you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I
am sure James does not drink so much."

This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which
no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting
almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it
ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal
of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother's
comparative sobriety.

Thorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and
she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse
moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of
the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all
his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was
impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity
of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power;
she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed
whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them
without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most
complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the
best goer, and himself the best coachman. "You do not really think,
Mr. Thorpe," said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the
matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the
subject, "that James's gig will break down?"

"Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in
your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have
been fairly worn out these ten years at least--and as for the body! Upon
my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the
most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we
have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty
thousand pounds."

"Good heavens!" cried Catherine, quite frightened. "Then pray let us
turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let
us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how
very unsafe it is."

"Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if
it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent
falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how
to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty
years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for
five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail."

Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two
such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been
brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to
how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity
will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom
aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented
with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit
therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting
at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the
affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the
point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real
opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to
her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making
those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to
this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and
his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve
them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact
perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him
the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his
conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own
concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and
sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had
infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had
killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his
companions together; and described to her some famous day's sport, with
the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs
had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which
the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life
for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties,
which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.

Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed
as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not
entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his
endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a
bold surmise, for he was Isabella's brother; and she had been assured by
James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite
of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her
before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to
increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in
some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his
powers of giving universal pleasure.

When they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonishment of Isabella was
hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for
them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o'clock!" It was
inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her
own watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no
assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his
watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then
would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and
she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a
half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to
confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella;
but the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice,
by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed
her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go
directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment's conversation
with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things
to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again;
so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter
despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.

Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of
the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here
you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to
dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?"

"Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day."

"So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going."

"You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?"

"Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met
her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly
any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."

"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"

"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.
Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her."

"Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?"

"Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem
very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted
muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very
handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family."

"And what did she tell you of them?"

"Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else."

"Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?"

"Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind
of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she
and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large
fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand
pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the
clothes after they came from the warehouse."

"And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?"

"Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,
however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is;
yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there
was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter
on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put
by for her when her mother died."

"And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?"

"I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is;
but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely
to do very well."

Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that
Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most
particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with
both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,
nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as
it was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had
lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very
pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.

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

completion: Catherine is in a bad mood when she first arrives home, but she quickly gets over it. After a good night's sleep, Catherine decides that her goal for the day is to get to know Eleanor Tilney better. So she heads to the Pump-room in the hopes of finding her. Life was way hard in the days before cell phones and Facebook. Before heading to the Pump-room, Catherine settles down to read in the parlor. Mrs. Allen keeps up a nice running commentary about anything that pops into her head. Just after noon the Thorpes and James show up to hustle her off for a road trip. Catherine doesn't really want to go, but Mrs. Allen totally fails to pick up on the vibes Catherine is sending her way, and says she has permission to go. Catherine says hi to Isabella, who complains about how long they waited for her, and hops into the carriage with John. John tells her that his horse is spirited but that she shouldn't be frightened. Catherine is a bit frightened, but won't say so. But when they set off it is clear that the horse is very mild. When she comments on it, John assures her it is all because of his crazy awesome driving skills. Catherine thinks that John was a bit of a punk to scare her. She sits back to enjoy the ride. John asks Catherine about the Allens, namely how rich they are and how much time she spends with them. John then asks if Mr. Allen drinks a lot and Catherine says no. John gripes about how women are always so concerned about drinking. Catherine notes that there is a lot of drinking at Oxford, which John vehemently denies - a bit too vehemently really. Catherine gets the impression that they are all drunkards at Oxford now. She insists James doesn't drink so much though. John carries on in his usual inarticulate manner and Catherine is convinced that James is comparatively sober and that John can add "hard core drinker" to his list of other fine attributes. John blathers on about how great his horse and carriage are again. Catherine really should just hit him. John then hints that James' gig is a piece of junk and Catherine is worried he will break down and they'll have to call Triple A or something John insists it's not unsafe at all and is actually a very nice carriage. Catherine is confused as to why he would contradict himself and make things so ambiguous. John goes back to talking about horses again. Hey, John, two words for you: shut up. Catherine comes to the bold conclusion that John is not very cool or interesting and that she doesn't want to hang out with him anymore. They arrive back at the Allens and Isabella insists the time flew by. Catherine begs to differ - silently, but still. Mrs. Allen has meanwhile been to the Pump-room where she got some info on the Tilneys from Mrs. Thorpe. Turns out the Tilneys are very rich and that Mrs. Tilney is dead. Mrs. Allen isn't exactly a fountain of information there, but she tries.


prompt:
Chapter: The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the
theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an
opportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand
things which had been collecting within her for communication in the
immeasurable length of time which had divided them. "Oh, heavens!
My beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?" was her address on
Catherine's entering the box and sitting by her. "Now, Mr. Morland," for
he was close to her on the other side, "I shall not speak another word
to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect it. My
sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need not ask
you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair in a
more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to
attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you
already; and as for Mr. Tilney--but that is a settled thing--even your
modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes
it too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him! I really am quite
wild with impatience. My mother says he is the most delightful young man
in the world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him
to me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven's sake! I assure
you, I can hardly exist till I see him."

"No," said Catherine, "he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere."

"Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my
gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own
thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother
and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be
here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found
out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to
every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was
quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I
would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am
sure you would have made some droll remark or other about it."

"No, indeed I should not."

"Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You
would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense
of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my
cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by
for the world."

"Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark
upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my
head."

Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to
James.

Catherine's resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again
continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of
going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second
prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to
delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room,
where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.
Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to
talk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their
newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new
face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the
Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in
less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her
usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant
attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves
from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some
time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which,
confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very
little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in
some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was
conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with
so much laughter, that though Catherine's supporting opinion was not
unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give
any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however
she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed
necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just
entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with
a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage
to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day
before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances
with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as
both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not
an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not
been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in
every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity
and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon.

"How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of
Catherine's towards the close of their conversation, which at once
surprised and amused her companion.

"Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well."

"He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other
evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged
the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot
think," added Catherine after a moment's silence, "how surprised I was
to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."

"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but
for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us."

"That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I
thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday
a Miss Smith?"

"Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes."

"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?"

"Not very."

"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"

"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father."

Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to
go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said
Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?"

"Perhaps we--Yes, I think we certainly shall."

"I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly
returned; and they parted--on Miss Tilney's side with some knowledge
of her new acquaintance's feelings, and on Catherine's, without the
smallest consciousness of having explained them.

She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and
the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation,
the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the
occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress
is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about
it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her
great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas
before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating
between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the
shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.
This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,
from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather
than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of
the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to
the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little
the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire;
how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how
unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone.
No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for
it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of
shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not
one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.

She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could
not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to
dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every
young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every
young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have
been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the
pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious
for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as
they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's agony began; she fidgeted
about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible
from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The
cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing
of the Tilneys.

"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine," whispered Isabella, "but I am
really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it
is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you
and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and
come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment."

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

Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a
place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood
behind her. "Heyday, Miss Morland!" said he. "What is the meaning of
this? I thought you and I were to dance together."

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

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

"Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description as that."

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

This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine's
attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of
a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said,
"That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with
you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention
of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual
agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness
belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves
on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other.
I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and
complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not
choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners
or wives of their neighbours."

"But they are such very different things!"

"--That you think they cannot be compared together."

"To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep
house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a
long room for half an hour."

"And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that
light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could
place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the
advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both,
it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of
each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each
other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each
to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had
bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own
imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours,
or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You
will allow all this?"

"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still
they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same
light, nor think the same duties belong to them."

"In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man
is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make
the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile.
But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the
compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the
lavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which
struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison."

"No, indeed, I never thought of that."

"Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This
disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any
similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your
notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your
partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who
spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to
address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with
him as long as you chose?"

"Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he
talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young
men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with."

"And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!"

"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody,
it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to
talk to anybody."

"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of
making the inquiry before?"

"Yes, quite--more so, indeed."

"More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper
time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks."

"I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months."

"Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds
out every year. 'For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but
beyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the world.' You would be
told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter,
lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because
they can afford to stay no longer."

"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to
London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired
village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place
as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a
variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know
nothing of there."

"You are not fond of the country."

"Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But
certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath
life. One day in the country is exactly like another."

"But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country."

"Do I?"

"Do you not?"

"I do not believe there is much difference."

"Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long."

"And so I am at home--only I do not find so much of it. I walk about
here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every
street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."

Mr. Tilney was very much amused.

"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of
intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you
will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that
you did here."

"Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs.
Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of
Bath, when I am at home again--I do like it so very much. If I could but
have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be
too happy! James's coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful--and
especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so
intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be
tired of Bath?"

"Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.
But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal
gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath--and the honest relish of
balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here
their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too
importunate for a divided attention.

Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived
herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the
lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,
of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of
life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently
address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and
blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in
her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the
gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that
you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name,
and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father."

Catherine's answer was only "Oh!"--but it was an "Oh!" expressing
everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on
their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now
follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a
family they are!" was her secret remark.

In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source
of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since
her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented
environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all
eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might
find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister
that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like
it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put
it off--let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a
proviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure
it would not. At twelve o'clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney
Street; and "Remember--twelve o'clock," was her parting speech to
her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend,
Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight's
experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though
longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully
submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away,
and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the
way home.

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

completion: The Allens, Thorpes, and two Morlands all attend the theater together. Isabella is anxious to see Henry Tilney, but Catherine can't spot him. Isabella tells Catherine and she and James have magically aligned opinions on every topic ever. She goes on to joke about how Catherine would have teased them if she had been present. Catherine is overly serious and denies this accusation. Isabella is incredulous - it isn't made entirely clear, but it seems that Isabella can't quite believe how earnest and naive Catherine is. The next day Catherine heads to the Pump-room to find Eleanor Tilney. She meets up with the Thorpes and James. Catherine ends up walking around with James and Isabella and totally feels like a third wheel. Luckily she spots Miss Tilney, and goes to talk to her. She tries to subtly grill Eleanor about Henry, but Catherine isn't great with subtlety, so the grilling is pretty obvious. Eleanor is totally on to how Catherine feels about Henry now, but Catherine isn't aware that she's given anything away. The two new friends part and plan to meet up at the ball tomorrow night. Bath is a non-stop party. Catherine goes home happy and ponders her wardrobe. She's not sure what to wear to the ball tonight. The narrator lets us know that this is silly, since most men don't notice what women wear at all. The night of the ball has arrived and Catherine is a bit anxious. She really wants to avoid John Thorpe and she really wants Henry to notice her. Isabella ditches her to go dance with James and Catherine is scared that John is going to ask her to dance and bore her by talking about the same old subjects. Luckily, Henry asks her to dance, instead. But then John comes up and says he thought he and Catherine were set to dance together already. Oh, snap. Drama alert. Catherine denies this, saying he never actually asked her. John insists he asked her like five days ago or something. John asks who this Tilney character is and rambles on till a group of passing ladies distracts him and he wanders off. This guy is such a class act. Catherine goes back to Henry, relieved. Henry says that he's annoyed with John. He insists that dancing is like a marriage and that he and Catherine are bound together for the duration of their dance. Catherine finds this marriage/dancing comparison weird, and Henry hilariously goes on to list the similarities between the two. Henry then asks about John and makes sure that Catherine isn't going to get distracted and break their dancing "engagement" . Catherine insists she doesn't want to dance with anyone else and Henry is happy. They discuss Bath and Catherine says that she likes Bath society better since the country can be boring. Henry appreciates Catherine's enthusiasm for Bath and notes that most people there are the jaded, high society type. As the dance is finishing up, Catherine notices a man staring at her. Is it a stalker? It's an older guy, handsome though, and he starts talking to Henry. Henry comes back over and notes that the old man is his dad, General Tilney. Catherine thinks that the whole family is really good looking. Good genes. This bodes well for future offspring. Catherine chats with Miss Tilney too and the two decide to meet up tomorrow at noon to go on a walk, as long as it doesn't rain. Henry will be joining him. Catherine barely saw Isabella all evening.


prompt:
Chapter: The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only
a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most
favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year,
she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold
improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for
confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and
barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.
She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more positive.
"She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the
clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out."

At about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the
windows caught Catherine's watchful eye, and "Oh! dear, I do believe it
will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone.

"I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen.

"No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps it may come to
nothing, or it may hold up before twelve."

"Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty."

"Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt."

"No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you never mind dirt."

After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!" said Catherine, as
she stood watching at a window.

"So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet."

"There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an
umbrella!"

"They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair
at any time."

"It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be
dry!"

"Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in
the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put
on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had
rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder
he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable."

The rain continued--fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five
minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still
kept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as
hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. "You will not be
able to go, my dear."

"I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after
twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think
it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and
now I shall give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here
as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the south of
France!--the night that poor St. Aubin died!--such beautiful weather!"

At half past twelve, when Catherine's anxious attention to the weather
was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the
sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by
surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly
returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance.
Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed,
and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had "always thought it
would clear up." But whether Catherine might still expect her friends,
whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture,
must yet be a question.

It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the
pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely
watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach
of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that
had surprised her so much a few mornings back.

"Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for
me perhaps--but I shall not go--I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss
Tilney may still call." Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon
with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he
was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. "Make haste! Make haste!"
as he threw open the door. "Put on your hat this moment--there is no
time to be lost--we are going to Bristol. How d'ye do, Mrs. Allen?"

"To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with
you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment."
This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs.
Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give
their assistance. "My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We
shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me
for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily
believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago
if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify,
the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such
ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much
better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton
and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it,
go on to Kingsweston."

"I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland.

"You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times
more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can
hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go."

"Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?"

"The finest place in England--worth going fifty miles at any time to
see."

"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?"

"The oldest in the kingdom."

"But is it like what one reads of?"

"Exactly--the very same."

"But now really--are there towers and long galleries?"

"By dozens."

"Then I should like to see it; but I cannot--I cannot go."

"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"

"I cannot go, because"--looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella's
smile--"I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a
country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,
as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon."

"Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I
saw them--does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?"

"I do not know indeed."

"Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced
with last night, are not you?"

"Yes."

"Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a
smart-looking girl."

"Did you indeed?"

"Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got
some very pretty cattle too."

"It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a
walk."

"And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk!
You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the
whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere."

Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea
of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now."

"I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go
up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?"

"Yes, yes, every hole and corner."

"But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer,
and call by and by?"

"Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were
going as far as Wick Rocks."

"Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?"

"Just as you please, my dear."

"Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs.
Allen was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you
go." And in two minutes they were off.

Catherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very
unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great
pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in
degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had
acted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,
without sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later
than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite of
what she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course
of that hour, she could not from her own observation help thinking that
they might have gone with very little inconvenience. To feel herself
slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the delight of
exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize
Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for
almost anything.

They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,
without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she
meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons
and false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle
Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
"Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?"

"Who? Where?"

"On the right-hand pavement--she must be almost out of sight now."
Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother's arm,
walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her.
"Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe," she impatiently cried; "it is Miss Tilney; it
is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will
get out this moment and go to them." But to what purpose did she speak?
Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had
soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the
corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked
into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another
street, she entreated him to stop. "Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I
cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney." But Mr.
Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd
noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having
no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit.
Her reproaches, however, were not spared. "How could you deceive me so,
Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown
Road? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They must think
it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without saying a word!
You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor
in anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times rather, get out now,
and walk back to them. How could you say you saw them driving out in a
phaeton?" Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never
seen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the
point of its having been Tilney himself.

Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
agreeable. Catherine's complaisance was no longer what it had been in
their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were
short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards that, she still
looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of
the promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the
Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness which its
walls could supply--the happiness of a progress through a long suite of
lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though
now for many years deserted--the happiness of being stopped in their way
along narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having
their lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and
of being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on
their journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town
of Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland, who was behind them, made his
friend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close
enough for conversation, and Morland said, "We had better go back,
Thorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as
I. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little
more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to
go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much
better put it off till another day, and turn round."

"It is all one to me," replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly
turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.

"If your brother had not got such a d--beast to drive," said he soon
afterwards, "we might have done it very well. My horse would have
trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have
almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded
jade's pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his
own."

"No, he is not," said Catherine warmly, "for I am sure he could not
afford it."

"And why cannot he afford it?"

"Because he has not money enough."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Nobody's, that I know of." Thorpe then said something in the loud,
incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a
d--thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not
afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even
endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the
consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed
either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they
returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.

As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady
had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off;
that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had
asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no,
had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away.
Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly
upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing
the reason of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother had so
much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme."

They all spent the evening together at Thorpe's. Catherine was disturbed
and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in
the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a
very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton.
Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more
than once. "How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad
I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball
or not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would not be there for
all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening now and then
to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the
Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that is. But I
dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you
do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say
we could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such
consequence."

Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in
tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they
appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she
offered. "Do not be so dull, my dearest creature," she whispered. "You
will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but
the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual?
It was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I
should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a
friend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same;
he has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! What a delightful hand you
have got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life! I would fifty
times rather you should have them than myself."

And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the
true heroine's portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with
tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night's
rest in the course of the next three months.

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

completion: The next day it is overcast and Catherine worries that it might rain. She hangs out in the parlor with Mrs. Allen and obsesses over the weather. Mrs. Allen agrees with everything Catherine says and makes some great observations, like that the street will be wet since it has started to rain. Genius. It keeps raining harder but the sun finally comes back out at half past twelve. Catherine isn't sure if the Tilneys are still coming, though. Too bad no one has a cell phone. The Thorpes and James show up suddenly. They are all very loud and tell Catherine to hurry up, she's going with them on a ride to Bristol. Catherine says she can't go because she's waiting for the Tilneys. James points out that they won't make it all the way to Bristol today, but John and Isabella ignore him and rattle off a really lengthy itinerary. John mentions that they plan to stop at Blaize Castle. Catherine is super-excited over this since she's obsessed with Gothic novels and castles. Catherine still is reluctant to go. John suddenly recalls that he saw Henry and Eleanor driving off in a carriage. So they won't be coming over after all. Catherine finally agrees to go, but she isn't sure about it. Catherine is excited to see the castle, but is worried about the Tilneys. The group drives off and Catherine sees the Tilneys walking down the street to her house. Catherine is really upset and tells John to stop, but he just makes his horse go faster and laughs. Catherine gets mad at John and asks why he lied, but John won't admit that he lied about seeing Henry. Catherine gives John the silent treatment after their argument and imagines how awesome Blaize Castle will be to make herself feel better. James stops them and says it's getting late and they have to go back home. Serious bummer. John says that James is cheap and should buy his own carriage and horse so they could make better time. His rental stinks, apparently. Catherine takes offense on her brother's behalf and says he can't afford his own carriage. John grumbles incoherently and says it's not cool to be stingy with your money. They return and drop Catherine off at her house. The footman tells Catherine that a lady called for her but didn't have a card to leave. Catherine is really upset that she missed the Tilneys. The Allens and Catherine go visit the Thorpes that night. Isabella talks about how she's glad she isn't at a ball and wonders aloud what everyone is doing at the ball. Catherine is bummed out and Isabella tells her to buck up. She insists the whole thing was the Tilneys fault because they weren't punctual. Catherine doesn't get much sleep that night.


prompt:
Chapter: "Mrs. Allen," said Catherine the next morning, "will there be any harm
in my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have
explained everything."

"Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always
wears white."

Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform
herself of General Tilney's lodgings, for though she believed they were
in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's
wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she
was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened
away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her
conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and
resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to
see her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to
believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any
impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for
Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not
quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her
card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did
not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss
Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left
the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and
too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,
could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in
expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the
bottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at a
window, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was
followed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,
and they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings. Catherine, in deep
mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself
at such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she
remembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers
might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree
of unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of
rudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.

Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the
others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they
were not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first
place, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the
second, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre
accordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;
she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness
for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were
habituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she
knew, on Isabella's authority, rendered everything else of the kind
"quite horrid." She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure;
the comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during
the first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about
her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr.
Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,
recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite
genuine merriment--no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look
upon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the
space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without
being once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of
indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage
during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her,
and he bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended
it; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.
Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to
the box in which he sat and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings
rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her
own dignity injured by this ready condemnation--instead of proudly
resolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment towards him
who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble
of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by
avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself
all the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only
eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.

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

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

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

"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such
a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to
him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not--Oh! You were
not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped,
I would have jumped out and run after you."

Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a
declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he
said everything that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and
dependence on Catherine's honour. "Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not
angry," cried Catherine, "because I know she was; for she would not see
me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next
minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps
you did not know I had been there."

"I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she
has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such
incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than
that my father--they were just preparing to walk out, and he being
hurried for time, and not caring to have it put off--made a point of her
being denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,
and meant to make her apology as soon as possible."

Catherine's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,
thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the
gentleman: "But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your
sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could
suppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take
offence?"

"Me! I take offence!"

"Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were
angry."

"I angry! I could have no right."

"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face." He
replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.

He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for
Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,
however, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon
as possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,
she was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the
world.

While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes
together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt
something more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself
the object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say
of her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance: she found
it was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather
than postpone his own walk a few minutes. "How came Mr. Thorpe to know
your father?" was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her
companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military
man, had a very large acquaintance.

When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while
they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had
travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in
a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with General
Tilney: "He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active--looks
as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a
gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived."

"But how came you to know him?"

"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I
have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today the
moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have,
by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost
afraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if
I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in
this world--I took his ball exactly--but I could not make you understand
it without a table; however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich
as a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous
dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by
heavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in Bath."

"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?"

"And what do you think I said?"--lowering his voice--"well done,
general, said I; I am quite of your mind."

Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by
General Tilney's, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,
however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued
the same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to
have done.

That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very
delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the
family whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much
more, for her than could have been expected.

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

completion: Catherine goes to call on the Tilneys in order to apologize for the mix up yesterday. She asks to see Miss Tilney but the butler tells her she isn't at home. But, as Catherine is leaving, she sees Eleanor leaving the house with her dad. Harsh. Catherine feels dissed and is very upset. Catherine blames herself for the whole business though and decides that Eleanor is responding to Catherine's original rudeness. Catherine goes to the theater that night with the Thorpes and spies the Tilneys. Henry spots her and bows coolly. Catherine is miserable. She plans to find the Tilneys after the play in order to beg forgiveness and to explain herself. After the play, Henry comes over to her and Mrs. Allen to say hello. Catherine gives a very jumbled apology, but Henry gets the gist of what happened. He quickly forgives her. Catherine asks if Eleanor is mad at her, and Henry explains that she had just been called away with her dad right as Catherine called, so she wasn't able to see her. Catherine asks if Henry is mad at her, and he denies that he looked angry or felt angry at all. Henry hangs out for awhile. Catherine notices that John Thorpe is talking to General Tilney, which is weird. She asks Henry how they know each other, and Henry says his father knows a lot of people and he's not really sure. John Thorpe arrives to see Catherine out and brags about knowing General Tilney. He says he saw him at the billiard-room and then tells Catherine a billiard story. John says the General thinks she's the finest girl in Bath. Catherine is astonished.


prompt:
Chapter: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes
and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,
and the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the
week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on
the afternoon's Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a
private consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom had
particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously
placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided the weather
were fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and
they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.
The affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation secured, Catherine
only remained to be apprised of it. She had left them for a few minutes
to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the plan was completed, and as
soon as she came again, her agreement was demanded; but instead of the
gay acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very
sorry, but could not go. The engagement which ought to have kept her
from joining in the former attempt would make it impossible for her to
accompany them now. She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take
their proposed walk tomorrow; it was quite determined, and she would
not, upon any account, retract. But that she must and should retract
was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton
tomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off
a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.
Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. "Do not urge me, Isabella. I
am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go." This availed nothing. The same
arguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would
not hear of a refusal. "It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you
had just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put
off the walk till Tuesday."

"No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior
engagement." But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling
on her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most
endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not
seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so
dearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so
sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all
in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained
by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to
influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her
with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so
little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown
cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. "I cannot help being
jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who
love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not
in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are
stronger than anybody's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace;
and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me
to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else."

Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the
part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others?
Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of
everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her
mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied
her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,
could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any
longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend--I
shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse."

This was the first time of her brother's openly siding against her, and
anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they
would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily
do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and
everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate
answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not
go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and
a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of
cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party.
If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would
not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing."

"Catherine, you must go," said James.

"But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
either of them would like to go."

"Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my
sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d---- me if I
do. I only go for the sake of driving you."

"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were
lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.

The three others still continued together, walking in a most
uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,
sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and
her arm was still linked within Isabella's, though their hearts were
at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always
distressed, but always steady.

"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James;
"you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest,
best-tempered of my sisters."

"I hope I am not less so now," she replied, very feelingly; "but indeed
I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right."

"I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great
struggle."

Catherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no
opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined
by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I
have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe
conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses."

"You have not!" cried Catherine.

"I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to
say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton
with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her
till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her;
so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of
mine--hey?"

Isabella's countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and
James too looked happy again.

"A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our
distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a
most delightful party."

"This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I must run
after Miss Tilney directly and set her right."

Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When
everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would
suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any
further objection.

"I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message.
If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss
Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know
that Mr. Thorpe has--He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into
one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;
Isabella, do not hold me."

Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were
turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and
were at home by this time.

"Then I will go after them," said Catherine; "wherever they are I will
go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded
into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it."
And with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have
darted after her, but Morland withheld him. "Let her go, let her go, if
she will go."

"She is as obstinate as--"

Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper
one.

Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would
permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As
she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to
disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;
but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination
apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to
have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,
and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been
withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted
merely her own gratification; that might have been ensured in some
degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had
attended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their
opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to
restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not
be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,
she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of
Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the
Tilneys' advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into
their lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still
remaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying
that she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him
proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which
happened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the
drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her
explanation, defective only in being--from her irritation of nerves and
shortness of breath--no explanation at all, was instantly given. "I am
come in a great hurry--It was all a mistake--I never promised to go--I
told them from the first I could not go.--I ran away in a great hurry
to explain it.--I did not care what you thought of me.--I would not stay
for the servant."

The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given
the message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly
surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in
resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as
much to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.
Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager declarations
immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as she could
desire.

The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney
to her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous
politeness as recalled Thorpe's information to her mind, and made her
think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such
anxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not aware of
her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry
with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the
apartment herself. "What did William mean by it? He should make a point
of inquiring into the matter." And if Catherine had not most warmly
asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the
favour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.

After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,
and was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney's asking her if
she would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest
of the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was
greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen
would expect her back every moment. The general declared he could say no
more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on
some other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would
not refuse to spare her to her friend. "Oh, no; Catherine was sure they
would not have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure
in coming." The general attended her himself to the street-door, saying
everything gallant as they went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of
her walk, which corresponded exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and
making her one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they
parted.

Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney
Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity, though she
had never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything
more of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant
throughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began
(as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been
perfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way
to their entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing idea of
a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness
to both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and
ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct
had really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the
half-settled scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following
day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. "Well," said he, "and do you think
of going too?"

"No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told
me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?"

"No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes
are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country
in open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and
public places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should
allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland
would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do
not you think these kind of projects objectionable?"

"Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean
gown is not five minutes' wear in them. You are splashed getting in
and getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every
direction. I hate an open carriage myself."

"I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has an
odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by
young men, to whom they are not even related?"

"Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it."

"Dear madam," cried Catherine, "then why did not you tell me so before?
I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with
Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought
I was doing wrong."

"And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.
Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But
one must not be over particular. Young people will be young people,
as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first
came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do
not like to be always thwarted."

"But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you
would have found me hard to persuade."

"As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done," said Mr. Allen;
"and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any
more."

"That is just what I was going to say," added his wife.

Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a
moment's thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper
and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of
which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that
Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in
spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing
any such thing. "You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is old
enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise
her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had
better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and you will be
only getting ill will."

Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be
doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen's approbation of her
own conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the
danger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one
of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the
Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in
order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one
breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?

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

completion: It is now Sunday. The chapter is a little vague on where everyone actually is at this point - most likely they are all leaving church. John, Isabella, and James decide to once again head down to Bristol and Blaize Castle. They tell Catherine to saddle up since she's coming with them tomorrow. No "please" guys? Catherine has made plans with Eleanor though - they're going to try again to go on their walk with Henry. The Thorpes and James throw a fit and insist she come with them. Things quickly go downhill and turn into a bad educational movie on peer pressure. The peer pressuring trio insist that Catherine can go walking another time. But Catherine feels it's wrong to break her engagement and it's especially wrong to lie about why she's changing her plans to Eleanor. So she refuses to alter her plans. Isabella starts insulting Catherine and says that Catherine has thrown her over for Eleanor. Catherine thinks everyone is behaving like lousy friends and that her brother is being a punk. John wanders off and comes back over to say that he talked to Eleanor himself and told her that Catherine had other plans. So she can go on their road trip now. Catherine is really mad - she says that John had no right to interfere and lie. Catherine runs off, with the other three protesting and insulting her. Catherine runs after the Tilneys and bursts into their house. She explains that John is a liar liar pants on fire and that she still wants to go out with them tomorrow. Things are cleared up and Catherine is introduced to General Tilney, who is overly polite to her. The General invites her to stay and dine with them, but Catherine has to go home since the Allens are expecting her. Catherine walks home and is certain that she did the right thing by refusing to go with the peer pressuring trio. When she gets home Catherine mentions the road trip scheme to Mr. Allen. Mr. Allen is scandalized and says that she shouldn't be riding around un-chaperoned with boys. He's glad she isn't going. Catherine is freaked and asks Mrs. Allen why she let her do it before if it's so scandalous. Mrs. Allen blathers on about young people being young people. She's the best chaperone ever. Catherine is still put out. Mr. Allen says it's all cool, just don't do it again. Catherine is worried about Isabella's reputation now, but Mr. Allen tells her not to meddle. Catherine thinks about how tricky it is navigating all the rules of society.