"Ah," she 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.