“I do not think you ever will,” said she, with an arch smile; “I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law.”

“Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness.”

Mr. Rushworth was of course having no problem going into the wilderness as they were speaking, but Miss Crawford was not about to use such an argument with Edmund.

“Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you.”

“You need not hurry to prevent my saying a bon mot, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out.”

Nearly a mile away, Mr. Rushworth stopped coughing, and now wheezed a bit as he shook leaves and grassy twigs off his coat.

A general silence succeeded at last. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying, “I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood. But the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while. Also, perhaps Mr. Rushworth would like to sit down for a bit also, when he catches up with us.”

“My dear Fanny,” cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, “how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps,” turning to Miss Crawford, “my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm.”

“Thank you, but I am not at all tired.” She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. “You scarcely touch me,” said he. “You do not make me of any use. Indeed, how cold your hand is, in this heat! What a difference in the weight of a woman’s arm from that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison.”

“I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?”

“Not half a mile,” was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.

Miss Crawford gave him a brilliant look of her suddenly very darkened and intense eyes.

“We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,” said Edmund, taking out his watch.