His 'empty hands' may not even grasp at the star." He had adapted the verses very cleverly to suit his purpose.

With a sudden flash of intuition Nan understood him, and the fear which had knocked at her heart, when Penelope had assumed that there was a definite understanding between herself and Rooke, knocked again.

Poetically wrapped up, he was in reality handing her out her conge--frankly admitting that art came first and love a poor second.
He twisted his shoulders irritably.
"Last talks are always odious!" he flung out abruptly.
"Last ?" she queried.

Her fingers were trifling nervously with the pages of an album of songs that rested against the music-desk.
He did not look at her.
"Yes," he said quietly.

"I'm going away.