I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced.  Poor Thorpe is in town:  I dread the sight of him; his honest heart would feel so much.  I have written to him and my father.  Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears.  I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man.  I cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney.  We parted at last by mutual consent —­ happy for me had we never met!  I can never expect to know such another woman!  Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.  “Believe me,” &c.

Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began.  He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father’s entrance.  They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly eat anything.  Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat.  The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did.  The general, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her; but to the other two her distress was equally visible.  As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again.  She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation about her.  She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort to her.

After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her distress known to them was another consideration.  Perhaps, if particularly questioned, she might just give an idea —­ just distantly hint at it —­ but not more.  To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been to her —­ and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!  She believed she must waive the subject altogether.  Henry and Eleanor were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it, looked at her anxiously.  Catherine took her place at the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said, “No bad news from Fullerton, I hope?  Mr. and Mrs. Morland —­ your brothers and sisters —­ I hope they are none of them ill?”