"What other key?" said Faith.
"I mean," he answered with a tone that shewed a little fear of going too far, "what do you want to learn before that?"
"I don't know," said Faith humbly.—"I suppose, English. It was a grammar of yours, Mr. Linden, a French grammar, that I was looking at; and I found I couldn't understand what it was about, anywhere. So I thought I must learn something else first."
"Never was philosopher so put in a corner!" said Mr. Linden. "Suppose you take up him and the dictionary and let me be the grammar—do you think you could understand what I was about?"
The blood leapt to her cheek; part of her answer Faith had no need to put in words, even if he had not seen her eyes, which he did. The words were not in any hurry to come.
"When you have been teaching all day already"—she said in a tone between regretful and self-reproving. "It wouldn't be right."
"Mayn't I occasionally do wrong?—just for variety's sake!"
"You may—and I don't doubt you would. I was thinking of my own part."
"I am glad you don't say you have no doubt I do," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose you mean that I would if sufficient temptation came up, which of course it never has."
Faith looked an instant, and then her gravity broke up. "Ah, but you know what I mean," she said.