The stage could no longer excite genuine merriment--no longer keep her whole attention.

Every other look upon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without being once able to catch his eye.

No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes.

At length, however, he did look towards her, and he bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended it; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.
Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to the box in which he sat and forced him to hear her explanation.

Feelings rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her own dignity injured by this ready condemnation--instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.
The play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney was no longer to be seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he might be now coming round to their box.