It
seemed nearer to him since he had seen and talked with Gregson. It
was much nearer to him since a few minutes ago, when he had looked
upon what he had first thought to be the face of Eileen Brokaw.
And this was the world--the spirit--that had changed him. He
wondered if Gregson had seen the change which he tried so hard to
conceal. He wondered if Miss Brokaw would see it when she came,
and if her soft, gray eyes would read to the bottom of him as they
had fathomed him once before upon a time which seemed years and
years ago. Thoughts like these troubled him. Twice that day he had
found stealing over him a feeling that was almost physical pain,
and yet he knew that this pain was but the gnawing of a great
loneliness in his heart. In these moments he had been sorry that
he had brought Gregson back into his life. And with Gregson he was
bringing back Eileen Brokaw. He was more than sorry for that. The
thought of it made him grow warm and uncomfortable, though the
night air from off the Bay was filled with the chill tang of the
northern icebergs. Again his thoughts brought him face to face
with the old pictures, the old life. With them came haunting
memories of a Philip Whittemore who had once lived, and who had
died; and with these ghosts of the past there surged upon him the
loneliness which seemed to crush and stifle him.
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