“But how in the world can I teach you what to do, if I have to act a part myself?” “Well, before we begin, just give me a sketch of what I ought to do.” “You must be very cold and firm, and explain to me that though my mistake is natural, you are really not a god at all; and then that gives you an excuse to talk a great deal about yourself, and tell how wicked and human and splendid you are, and that you are not worthy of a simple, good girl like myself, and how you don’t love me anyhow. And then the essential thing is to go away quickly, and end the interview before I have a chance to begin all over again.” He looked doubtfully at the snow. “Must I get out and walk home?” he asked. “No,” she said. “I think that’s too complicated. We might try an easier one to begin. Suppose we do the calmly rational first. I explain to you that I have watched you from boyhood, and have come to the conclusion that our tastes, our intellects, our--” “Oh, no,” said Riatt, “there’s really no use in going on with that. Even I should have no difficulty with any lady who approached me in that way. But there was one of the others that sounded rather promising and difficult. How about the passionate whirlwind? I say to try that next.” To her surprise, Christine found herself coloring a little. “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. 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.”