"What in the name of goodness is the matter--?" She was now flushed and out of breath. He understood little or nothing of it at first but he became slowly aware that his father had enemies and that some fight was going to take place. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear again and--by my personal triumph--the influence quenched? There was nothing there. The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.