Nan skimmed the surface defiantly.

"What a disagreeable criticism! You might have given me some
encouragement instead of crushing my poor little attempt at composition
like that!"

Rooke looked at her gravely. With him, sincerity in art was a fetish; in
life, a superfluity. But for the moment he was genuinely moved. The
poseur's mask which he habitually wore slipped aside and the real man
peeped out.

"Yours ought to be more than attempts," he said quietly. "It's in you to
do something really big. And you must do it. If not, you'll go to
pieces. You don't understand yourself."

"And do you profess to?"

"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