and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget its having stopped two hours at Petty France.  Half the time would have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a minute.  But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well —­ so quietly —­ without making any disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at them:  so different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with!  And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important!  To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world.  In addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister’s account, for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating real gratitude.  His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced —­ she had no female companion —­ and, in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all.

“But how can that be?” said Catherine.  “Are not you with her?”

“Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father’s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there.”

“How sorry you must be for that!”

“I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.”

“Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey!  After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.”

He smiled, and said, “You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey.”

“To be sure, I have.  Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?”

“And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as ‘what one reads about’ may produce?  Have you a stout heart?  Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?”

“Oh! yes —­ I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house —­ and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.”

“No, certainly.  We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire —­ nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.  But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family.  While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper,