speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:--“It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.” He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said. “Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But _now_ we may be silent.” “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” “Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.” “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?” “Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.” “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_ think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.” “I must not decide on my own performance.” He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptatio