"A little." He smiled down at her. "The gods have given you the golden gift—the creative faculty. And there's a price to pay if you don't use the gift."
Nan's "blue violet" eyes held a startled look.
"You've got something which isn't given to everyone. To precious few, in fact! And if you don't use it, it will poison everything. We artists may not rust. If we do, the soul corrodes."
The sincerity of his tone was unmistakable. Art was the only altar at which Rooke worshipped, it was probably the only altar at which he ever would worship consistently. Nan suddenly yielded to the driving force at the back of his speech.
"Listen to this, then," she said. "It's a setting to some words I came across the other day."
She handed him a slip of paper on which the words were written and his eyes ran swiftly down the verses of the brief lyric:
EMPTY HANDS
Away in the sky, high over our heads,
With the width of a world between,
The far Moon sails like a shining ship
Which the Dreamer's eyes have seen.
And empty hands are out-stretched in vain,
While aching eyes beseech,
And hearts may break that cry for the Moon,
The silver Moon out of reach!
But sometimes God on His great white Throne
Looks down from the Heaven above,
And lays in the hands that are empty
The tremulous Star of Love.