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.'