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it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”
    “How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said “strange,” then thought better of it, all things considered.
    “I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told Miss Morland when she bought it.”
    “But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”
    “Harrumph!” Catherine wanted to say, for no better reason than she felt she ought to—but held herself in check, due to the timely actions of an angel who lightly pinched her cheek before she could open her mouth and spoil the pleasantry.
    Instead, it was Mrs. Allen who waxed eloquent: “Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than eight; and it is such a fag [6] —I come back tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.”
    Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.
    Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too much with the foibles of others.
    “What are you thinking of so earnestly?” said he, as they walked back to the ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory.”
    Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.”
    The angels never condoned her rare instances of uttering untruths; thus, it was a bit worrisome what they were likely to say—but for once Catherine was presented with complete angelic silence. Tiny glowing beings reposed on her sleeves, her shoulders, Mr. Tilney’s shoulders and lapels . . . and they simply regarded the two of them.
    “That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will not tell me,” he persisted.
    “Well then, I will not.”
    “Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much.”
    They danced again, accompanied by a lovely whirling cloud of angels; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance.
    Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, among the gentle whispers of her divine guardians, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained. But I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most.
    For if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared, [7] it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her.
    How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen’s head. But that Mr. Tilney was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied. Indeed, early in the evening Mr. Allen had taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire.
    However well that might be for Mr. Allen’s peace of mind, our heroine’s own was somewhat less secure. It is well known that pleasant twilight reveries are often followed by the coming of night and that which abides in it. And—dear