Scene: Bath, exterior, day. Wind ceaselessly crazes the frightening trees, etc. A carriage bowls friskily into view. Within, Miss Catherine Morland and friend, in torpid transit.
MISS M: (pertly adjusts bonnet): How do I look?
FRIEND: Babelocious.
MISS M: (inspects cleavage): Jesus! If this doesn’t drag the animal to the party I’ll freak. Period.
FRIEND: Tilney? He’s cool. But, like, insane. And the old guy – is he ever weird?
MISS M: Whatever. You like Britney Spears best, or Celine Dion?
(They amuse themselves playing whist or some other pretty period diversion. CUT TO Northanger Abbey. Bats privily prowl. Deer surreptitiously stalk, etc.)
GENERAL TILNEY: This chick Morland, is she pissing me off or what?
TILNEY: The fuck?
GENERAL TILNEY: There’s no bread. I made them run a computer check. Plus she reckons I offed your ma. Does that sound like a good deal?
TILNEY: You’re breaking my heart, Dad.
GENERAL TILNEY: You young guys got no respect.
(They arm wrestle playfully on carpet. Butler, housemaids etc. look raptly on. CUT TO Morland household, exterior, night. Ring at door.)
MISS M: This better be good, buster.
TILNEY (insinuatingly): Your pa home?
MISS M: Writing some asshole sermon is all. So . . . do I get to date you at the Prom or what?
TILNEY: Just as soon as I get out of rehab, hon.
MISS M: Fuckin’ A!
(They embrace as a file of cheerleaders marches behind. Profiles in all newspapers, Amis wins Oscar etc.)