They breakfasted before daylight; Mr.Swancourt, being more and more taken with his guest's ingenuous appearance, having determined to rise early and bid him a friendly farewell.

It was, however, rather to the vicar's astonishment, that he saw Elfride walk in to the breakfast-table, candle in hand.
Whilst William Worm performed his toilet (during which performance the inmates of the vicarage were always in the habit of waiting with exemplary patience), Elfride wandered desultorily to the summer house.
Stephen followed her thither.

The copse-covered valley was visible from this position, a mist now lying all along its length, hiding the stream which trickled through it, though the observers themselves were in clear air.
They stood close together, leaning over the rustic balustrading which bounded the arbour on the outward side, and formed the crest of a steep slope beneath Elfride constrainedly pointed out some features of the distant uplands rising irregularly opposite.

But the artistic eye was, either from nature or circumstance, very faint in Stephen now, and he only half attended to her description, as if he spared time from some other thought going on within him.
'Well, good-bye,' he said suddenly; 'I must never see you again, I suppose, Miss Swancourt, in spite of invitations.' His genuine tribulation played directly upon the delicate chords of her nature.

She could afford to forgive him for a concealment or two.
Moreover, the shyness which would not allow him to look her in the face lent bravery to her own eyes and tongue.
'Oh, DO come again, Mr.Smith!' she said prettily.
'I should delight in it; but it will be better if I do not.' 'Why ?' 'Certain circumstances in connection with me make it undesirable.