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  No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes.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?”