It took the place in her imagination of “perilous seas in faery lands forlorn.” She never passed a tobacco shop without a thrill of memory, and she saw, far down the vista of the years, a kindred moment for herself. It was with the aspect of Miss Strickland’s light blue eyes and trim, erect figure (the rest of her appearance was not very impressive) that Elsie supposed Venus had arisen from the sea. (The blue serge coat and skirt which invariably accompanied Miss Strickland, no doubt adhered to her later.) Miss Strickland was as beautiful as Venus, as grand as Queen Victoria, as wise as Minerva. As far as Elsie was concerned, wisdom would die with Miss Strickland. When Onoria said “That’s settled,” Elsie would rather have disputed the last trump. It had taken two years of dumb and invisible worship before Elsie had dared to make this final bid for the notice of her goddess. She knew it was final: if Miss Strickland had turned her away, she would have sunk like a stone to the bottom of her despair. She would never have attempted to move again. Life would have gone on all round her, but she would not have lived. She was living now; every breathless moment of her terrible lesson she had lived—ardour and agony combined in her. She felt that she was moving as swiftly as the Scotch express—sparks were flying out from the tension of her silence. “Well,” said Miss Strickland, “you’ve had over your hour—and I think I’ve told you enough to go on with. You haven’t talent, but don’t let that discourage you, I never believe in little girls with talent; work produces ability up to a certain point. There is no such thing as a woman genius and never will be.” Elsie looked at her in surprise. “But you—” she murmured. “Surely you are a genius?” “Nonsense,” said Miss Strickland, flushing half with annoyance and half with a feeling that was not annoyance. “I am nothing of the kind. I am merely a very hard-working person with the natural advantages of a good ear and light fingers.” Elsie could not believe this and she looked as if she could not believe it; but she said nothing. “Now run along,” said Miss Strickland briskly but not unkindly. You cannot be unkind to a person who will not believe that you are not a genius. Elsie went out of the music room with her head held up and her eyes sparkling. Miss Strickland did not immediately ring the bell to summon her next pupil. She felt unaccountably stirred. “A very ordinary little girl,” she said to herself reassuringly. “A _most_ ordinary little girl. Still I will see if something can’t be done with her. The poor child has been shamefully neglected by some woman no doubt. Women are the most destructive force in existence, or I should rather say weakness. Force is creative and appertains to man. Women are destructive because they have no force; they destroy by the conscious exercise of their weakness.”