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Reader—in the darkness, dreams often turn to nightmares, just before the coming of the dance of thunder and lightning that accompanies heaven’s storm. . . .
    Things were about to become very heroic indeed.
     

Chapter 4
     
     
    W ith more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over. She was ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear.
    Instead, every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours. Crowds of people and their guardian angels of every hue and brightness were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down, and hovering overhead (the angels naturally performed the hovering, not the people). These were persons whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see—and he only was absent. Even the everpresent heavenly glow appeared somewhat dimmer than usual—indeed, the familiar presence of the tiny beings seemed rather tedious, as was their constancy of attending her.
    “What a delightful place Bath is,” said Mrs. Allen (while Catherine was, in that moment, of another mind altogether) as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; “and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here.”
    This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now. But the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward.
    For hardly had she been seated ten minutes, before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: “I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?”
    This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago.
    Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might be, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Catherine was reminded just a tad of the occasional angelic habit of imparting too much information all at once.
    Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children. When she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information and triumphs to give, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions. She consoled herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.
    Catherine, sitting quietly, suddenly felt an odd difference in the atmosphere. It was as if the temperature plummeted a few degrees, and the brightness of the angels hovering about her head lost some of its luster.
    “Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three