Here was a temptation: it was the first time in her life that
Elfride had been treated as a grown-up woman in this way--offered
an arm in a manner implying that she had a right to refuse it.
Till to-night she had never received masculine attentions beyond
those which might be contained in such homely remarks as 'Elfride,
give me your hand;' 'Elfride, take hold of my arm,' from her
father. Her callow heart made an epoch of the incident; she
considered her array of feelings, for and against. Collectively
they were for taking this offered arm; the single one of pique
determined her to punish Stephen by refusing.
'No, thank you, Mr. Smith; I can get along better by myself'
It was Elfride's first fragile attempt at browbeating a lover.
Fearing more the issue of such an undertaking than what a gentle
young man might think of her waywardness, she immediately
afterwards determined to please herself by reversing her
statement.
'On second thoughts, I will take it,' she said.
They slowly went their way up the hill, a few yards behind the
carriage.
'How silent you are, Miss Swancourt!' Stephen observed.
'Perhaps I think you silent too,' she returned.
'I may have reason to be.'
'Scarcely; it is sadness that makes people silent, and you can
have none.'
'You don't know: I have a trouble; though some might think it less
a trouble than a dilemma.'
'What is it?' she asked impulsively.
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