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.
Nan played softly, humming the melody in the wistful little pipe of a voice which was all that Mature had endowed her with.

But it had an appealing quality--the heart-touching quality of the mezzo-soprano--while through the music ran the same unsatisfied cry as in her setting of the old Tentmaker's passionate words--a terrible demand for those things that life sometimes withholds.
As she ceased playing Maryon Rooke spoke musingly.
"It's a queer world," he said.

"What a man wants he can't have.