to your discomfiture and his disgust, and that thus, by mechanically executing the movement, you may acquire the power of seeing that you are not performing it when you rise once a minute or thereabouts, but a music ride is an exercise which a wise pupil will not take until advised thereto by her master.  Still, have your own way!  Why did George Washington and the other fathers of the republic exist, if its daughters must be in bondage to common sense and expediency?

Borrow Nell’s habit once more, for the criticism to be undergone on the road is mild compared to that of a gallery of spectators before whom you must repeatedly pass in review, and who may select you as the object of their especial scrutiny.  Dress at home, if possible; if not, go to the school early, and array yourself rapidly, but carefully, for there may be fifty riders present during the evening, and there will be little room to spare on the mounting-stand, and no minutes to waste on buttoning gloves, shortening skirt straps or tightening boot lacings.  Remember all that you have been taught about mounting and about taking your reins, and think assiduously of it, with a determination to pay no attention to the gallery.  There will be no spectators on the mounting-stand, and Theodore, who will take charge of you in the ring, will mount before you do, and when you have been put in your saddle by one of the masters, and start, he will take his place on your right, nearer the centre of the ring.  While you are walking your horses slowly about, turning corners carefully and never ceasing to control your reins, warn him that when you say, “Centre,” he must turn out to the right instantly, that you also may do so.  If possible, you will not pronounce the word, but will ride as long as the horses canter or trot in time to the music.

“Do you understand,” Theodore asks, “that these horses adjust their gait to the music?”

“So Nell’s friend says.”

“Well, I don’t believe it.  They are good horses, but I don’t believe that they practice circus tricks.  Why must I go to the centre the minute that you bid me?  Why couldn’t you pull up and pass out behind me?”

“Because if I did, somebody might ride over me.  It is not proper to stop while on the track.”

“Oh-h!  How long do they trot or canter at a time?  Half an hour?”

“Only a few minutes,” you answer, wondering whether Theodore really supposes that you could canter, much less trot half an hour, even if stimulated by the music of the spheres.

“That’s a pretty rider,” he says, as a girl circles lightly past, sitting fairly well, and rising straight, but with her arms so much extended that her elbow is the apex of a very obtuse angle, though her forearms are horizontal.  You explain this point to Theodore, who replies that she looks pretty, and seems to be able to trot for some time, whereupon your heart sinks within you.  What will he say when he sees the necessary brevity of your performance?