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

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

“Scold them!  Do you scold them for not admiring her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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