he said, laying her hand on her lips and shaking her head, "that's
very difficult, because you see, it really can't be imitated--"

"Can't be imitated!" cried Max. "Why, what sort of a teacher are you? I
believe you don't know your job. You are the sort of teacher who would
tell an arithmetic class that long division could not be imitated. I
believe the trouble with you is that you don't understand the passionate
whirlwind yourself. I believe you're a fraud, and I shall have your
license to teach taken away from you. Can't be imitated! Well, let me see
you try, at least."

Christine felt that he had the better of her, but she said firmly:

"Are you teaching this subject, or am I?"

"Certainly you can't think _you_ are. But if you say so, I'll have a
try."

Not sorry to create a diversion, Christine looked about her, and was more
diverted from the subject in hand than she had expected to be.

They were on the wrong road. What with the snow and the fact that she had
been so busy talking that she really had no idea how far they had been,
it took her a moment to orient herself anew. She told him with a
conscience-struck look.

"And you," said Riatt, "who do not even know the road to your own house,
were volunteering to pilot me through an emotional crisis."

Even a suggestion of adverse criticism was unpleasant to Miss Fenimer.
She was not accustomed to it; and she answered with some sharpness:

"Yes, but the road is real, whereas I understand your embarrassment
through the attentions of ladies is purely fictitious."

Riatt wondered how fictitious, but he turned the cutter about in
obedience to her commands. The horse started forward even more gaily,
under the impression that he was going home. But for the drivers, the
change was not so agreeable. A high wind had come up, the snow was
falling faster, and the light of the winter afternoon, already beginning
to fade, was obscured by high, dark, silver-edged banks of clouds.

"Upon my word," said Riatt, "I think we had better go back."

"It's only a little way from here," Christine answered, trying hard to
think how far it really was. She did want to get her father's coat, but
she was not indifferent to the triumph of making Riatt late for dinner,
and leaving Nancy Almar throughout the afternoon with no companion but
Wickham or Jack Ussher.

The wind cut their faces, the horse pulled and pranced, the gaiety had
gone out of their little expedition. They drove on a