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

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

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

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

 That night, Catherine and the Allens attend the theater with the Thorpes. Catherine is disappointed that Henry isn't there. But Henry's mysterious disappearing act lends him an aura of intrigue that Catherine finds attractive. Mrs. Allen is now really happy that she knows people in Bath and says so, repeatedly. Isabella and Catherine bond rapidly and do things like read novels together and walk arm in arm. If friendship bracelets existed back then, they'd totally make some. The narrator gives us a spiel on novels. Other novels tend to bash novels even though they are novels. It's confusing. Novels are considered corrupting material for impressionable young female minds, so heroines in novels typically don't read novels themselves. Our narrator takes issue with this and goes on a satirical rant against commentators who bash the novel and apologetic novelists. Novels, says our narrator, are interesting and entertaining. They are also relevant. And the best thing since sliced bread.

