Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy

for Isabella, and after a moment's thought, asked Mr. Allen
whether it would not be both proper and kind in her

to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum
of which she must be as insensible as herself; for she

considered that Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going
to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had passed.

Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing any
such thing. "You had better leave her alone, my dear;

she is old enough to know what she is about, and if not,
has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent

beyond a doubt; but, however, you had better not interfere.
She and your brother choose to go, and you will be only

getting ill will."
Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that

Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly relieved
by Mr. Allen's approbation of her own conduct, and truly

rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the danger
of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from

being one of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed;
for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she

had broken her promise to them in order to do what was
wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach

of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?
CHAPTER 14

The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost
expected another attack from the assembled party.

With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of
the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest,

where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced
therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them.

The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time;
and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection,

no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert
their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil

her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself.
They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble

hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it
so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath.

"I never look at it," said Catherine, as they
walked along the side of the river, "without thinking

of the south of France."
"You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised.

"Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about.
It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her

father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho.
But you never read novels, I dare say?"

"Why not?"
"Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen

read better books."
"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not

pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.
I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of

them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,
when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again;

I remember finishing it in two days--my hair standing on end
the whole time."

"Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you
undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called

away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of
waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk,

and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it."
"Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony.

You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions.
Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait

only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise
I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in

suspense at a most interesting part, by running away
with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own,

particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it,
and I think it must establish me in your good opinion."

"I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall
never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really

thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."
"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement

if they do--for they read nearly as many as women.
I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine

that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias
and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage

in the never-ceasing inquiry of 'Have you read this?'
and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon leave you as far

behind me as--what shall I say?--l want an appropriate
simile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor

Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy.
Consider how many years I have had the start of you.

I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good
little girl working your sampler at home!"

"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really,
do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?"

"The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest.
That must depend upon the binding."

"Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent.
Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister.

He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness
of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you.

The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not suit him;
and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we

shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest
of the way."

"I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean
to say anything wrong; but it is a nice book, and why

should not I call it so?"
"Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day,

and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two
very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word

indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it
was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy,

or refinement--people were nice in their dress,
in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every

commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word."
"While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only

to be applied to you, without any commendation at all.
You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland,

let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost
propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever

terms we like best. It is a most interesting work.
You are fond of that kind of reading?"

"To say the truth, I do not much like any other."
"Indeed!"

"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things
of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history,

real solemn history, I cannot be interested in.
Can you?"

"Yes, I am fond of history."
"I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty,