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.”