I found her, on my return, in the schoolroom. 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. "Ah, miss, YOU write!" "Well--tonight," I at last answered; and on this we separated. It lasted while I just bridled a little with the sense that my office demanded that there should be no such ignorance and no such person.