“No, I need both hands to hold up my dress. But you might grab my arm. I am wearing French shoes, which are not built for clambering over rocks.”
Cynthia was adroit. The use of one small word had relieved the situation. Medenham might hold her arm with the utmost tenderness, but so long as he was “grabbing” it there was nothing more to be said.
He piloted her to a narrow strip of turf that bordered the Wye, found a path that ran close to a small wood, and soon they were in a road. There was slight excuse for arm-holding now, but Cynthia seemed to think that her frills still needed safeguarding, so he did not withdraw the hand which clung to her elbow.
A light in a laborer’s cottage promised information; he knocked at the door, which was not opened, but a voice cried:
“Who is it? What do you want?”
“Tell me the nearest way to the Symon’s Yat Hotel, please,” said Medenham.
“Keep straight on till you come to the ferry. If the boat is on this side you can pull yourself across.”
“But if it is not?”
“You must chance it. The nearest bridge is a mile the other way.”
“By gad!” said Medenham under his breath.