'I will show it to you. Do you care most for speed or smooth
going? You are tired?'

Wych Hazel knit her brows into the most abortive attempt at a
frown. What right had he to suppose that she was tired!

'If you will just show me the way, sir--the shortest; I mean,
point out the direction.'

He was standing and waiting her pleasure with contented
gravity. 'The direction is not to be followed in a straight
line,' said he. 'I can only show you by going before. Is that
your meaning?'

'I should like to get home the shortest way,' said she
hesitating.

He went on without more words, and maintaining the polished
gravity of his first address; but Wych Hazel had reason to
remember her walk of that morning. It was a shorter way than
he had come, that by which her conductor took her, and in
parts easy enough; but in other parts requiring his skill as
well as hers to get her over them. He said not a word further;
he served her in silence: the vexatious thing was, that he was
able to serve her so much. Many a time she had to accept his
hand to get past a rude place; often both hands were needed to
swing her over a watercourse or leap her down from a rock. She
was agile and light of foot; she did what woman could; it was
only by sheer necessity that she yielded the mortifying tacit