Catherine had never looked very closely at the grand houses of Laura-place. As they approached the house that Lady Beauclerk had taken for two months, she saw that they were wider and taller than even the grand houses of Pulteney-street; and Lady Beauclerk had taken the entire house, not a mere single floor of rooms. They sent up their cards and were admitted; the footman who conducted them to her ladyship’s breakfast-room did not even deign to notice the Newfoundland who followed him up the stairs, his master and mistress trailing behind. Despite Henry’s assurances, Catherine was apprehensive at the reception that the dog would receive; as they entered the breakfast-room, and she perceived several visitors already arrived — including General Tilney, who favored her with a haughty nod of the head — her apprehension increased.


“Oh, the dear creature!” cried Miss Beauclerk as they entered. She immediately knelt to pet MacGuffin, who received her adoration as his due. “But I’m afraid that Lady Josephine will not like him as much as I do.”

“Surely you have not forgotten Lady Josephine, Henry,” said Lady Beauclerk.

Catherine wondered who the mysterious Lady Josephine might be; perhaps an elderly spinster companion to Lady Beauclerk or her daughter. All the callers beside themselves were gentlemen of Lady Beauclerk’s generation. As Catherine considered the question, a loud hiss from behind her ladyship’s chair answered the puzzle. A striped cat stood howling on the back of the chair, her fur standing on end. MacGuffin, accustomed to the tyranny of three active terriers, ignored this sally and lay down next to Miss Beauclerk’s chair.

“I was mistaken,” Henry murmured to Catherine. “Her ladyship keeps cats, not dogs.” A certain gleam in his eye made Catherine suspect that Henry remembered Lady Josephine very well. She gave him an answering smile, and then noticed that Miss Beauclerk was smiling at him knowingly as well.

Lady Josephine paced back and forth across the back of the chair a few times, emitting an occasional cry of dislike; at last she settled into her mistress’ lap.

“I am glad that you came today,” Miss Beauclerk said to Catherine as Henry exchanged polite nothings with Lady Beauclerk. “Mamma and I are so dull! We have been to the pump-room for our glass of water, and took four turns about the room, and inspected the book to see who has arrived, and are now at the mercy of those friends kind enough to take pity on a poor widow and orphan.”

Catherine looked round her surreptitiously at the grand appointments of the house, and thought it the very opposite of poor, and indeed quite replete with interesting ways one might spend one’s time when one’s callers went away. A stack of uncut books lay waiting for some lucky reader on a table; a grand pianoforte and an ornate harp stood ready to be played (and Catherine did not doubt for a moment that Miss Beauclerk played both, exquisitely); and Miss Beauclerk sat with a froth of white muslin in her lap, onto which she was rapidly dropping tiny whitework stitches. She saw Catherine looking at it, and said, “You catch me quite dissipated, Mrs. Tilney! I dare say you keep busy with good works, making clothing for the poor of your parish, and here I am embroidering a new shawl for myself. It will be a pretty thing, though, will it not?”

“It is very pretty,” said Catherine, recalling that she had never given a thought to the poor-basket and determining to start directly she got home.

“When you get to know me you will learn that I am very vain and like pretty things. Am not I, Mr. Tilney?” she said, interrupting his conversation with her mother.

“You hardly can expect me to answer such a question,” said Henry. “Whether I agree or disagree, I will be ungentlemanlike; either I call you vain, or accuse you of dissembling. Determining how I might appear to the best advantage in such a situation will take more time than a morning-call provides.”

Miss Beauclerk burst into a musical trill of laughter. “How you must enjoy being married to him!” she said to Catherine. “How I should enjoy dining every day with such a charming rattle!”

“Henry is not a rattle,” said Catherine. “His conversation is always very amusing, and often instructive.”

“I dare say it is,” said Miss Beauclerk, smiling at Henry in what Catherine considered a very familiar way.