She supposed it was because Marian was going
to be married that she took so much on herself; but she wondered too,
whether, when she herself should become engaged, such exploits would
be expected of her.
Half an hour later she saw her Aunt Penniman sitting in the embrasure
of a window, with her head a little on one side, and her gold eye-
glass raised to her eyes, which were wandering about the room. In
front of her was a gentleman, bending forward a little, with his back
turned to Catherine. She knew his back immediately, though she had
never seen it; for when he had left her, at Marian's instigation, he
had retreated in the best order, without turning round. Morris
Townsend--the name had already become very familiar to her, as if
some one had been repeating it in her ear for the last half-hour--
Morris Townsend was giving his impressions of the company to her
aunt, as he had done to herself; he was saying clever things, and
Mrs. Penniman was smiling, as if she approved of them. As soon as
Catherine had perceived this she moved away; she would not have liked
him to turn round and see her. But it gave her pleasure--the whole
thing. That he should talk with Mrs. Penniman, with whom she lived
and whom she saw and talked with every day--that seemed to keep him
near her, and to make him even easier to contemplate than if she
herself had been the object of his civilities; and that Aunt Lavinia
should like him, should not be shocked or startled by what he said,
this also appeared to the girl a personal gain; for Aunt Lavinia's
standard was extremely high, planted as it was over the grave of her
late husband, in which, as she had convinced every one, the very
genius of conversation was buried.
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