she found that the whole of his talk 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 days spent with the foxhounds, 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 single moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties which, he calmly concluded, had broken the necks of more than one person.

All this rather wearied Catherine; and not even his relating to her that Mr. Tilney’s father, General Tilney—­whom he was talking to one night at the theatre—­had declared her the finest girl in Bath could reconcile her to the idea that Mr. John Thorpe had the faculty of giving universal pleasure.  It was a visit which she paid to Miss Tilney to apologise for not keeping an engagement which Mr. John had caused her to break that first introduced her to the general.  A handsome, stately, well-bred man, with a temper that made him a martinet to his own children, he received her with a politeness, and even a deference, that delighted and surprised her.  But whereas Catherine’s simplicity of character made her growing attachment to Mr. Tilney obvious to that gentleman and to his sister, it was not so clear that he reciprocated her feelings.  Generally he amused himself by talking down to her or making fun of her in a good-natured way.  One day they were speaking of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and more particularly of the “Mysteries of Udolpho.”

“I have read all of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works,” said he, “and most of them with great pleasure.”

“I am very glad to hear it, indeed,” replied Catherine, “and now I shall never be ashamed of liking ‘Udolpho’ myself.  But I really thought that young men despised novels amazingly.”

“It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do, for they read nearly as many as women,” was Mr. Tilney’s answer.  “I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.  Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas.  Consider how many years I have had the start of you.  I had entered on my studies at Oxford while you were probably a good little girl working your sampler at home!”

“Not very good, I am afraid.  But now, really, do you not think ‘Udolpho’ the nicest book in the world?”

“The nicest; by which I suppose you mean the neatest.  That must depend on the binding,” said he.

“I am sure,” cried Catherine hastily, “I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should I not call it so?”