"Please, Mr. Beetle Man, I'm lost."

"No, you're not," he said reassuringly. "You're not a quarter of a
mile from the Puerto del Norte Road."

"But I don't know which direction--"

"Perfectly simple. Keep on over the top of the rock; turn left
down the slope, right up the dry stream bed to a dead tree; bear
right past--"

"That's too many turns, I never could remember more than two."

"Now, listen," he said persuasively. "I can make it quite plain to
you if--"

"I don't WISH to listen! I'll never find it."

"I'll toss you up my compass."

"I don't want your compass," she said firmly.

A long patient sigh exhaled from below.

"Do you want me to guide you?"

"No," she retorted, and was instantly panic-stricken, for the
monosyllable was of that accent which sets fire to bridges and
burns them beyond hope of return.