Chance prepared the

setting, but immense powers had rushed in and availed themselves of

it. Something deeply buried had flamed from the stranger’s eyes and

beckoned to him. The fire ran from the big man to himself and was

gone.

“The Isles of Greece–-” The words were simple enough, yet it

seemed to O’Malley that the look they summoned to the stranger’s eyes

ensouled them, transfiguring them with the significance of vital

clues. They touched the fringe of a mystery, magnificent and

remote—some transcendent psychical drama in the ‘life of this man

whose “bigness” and whose “loneliness that must be whispered” were

also in their way other vital clues. Moreover, remembering his first

sight of these two upon the upper deck a few hours before, he

understood that his own spirit, by virtue of its peculiar and

primitive yearnings, was involved in the same mystery and included in

the same hidden passion.

The little incident illustrates admirably O’Malley’s idiosyncrasy

of “seeing whole.” In a lightning flash his inner sense had associated

the words and the glance, divining that the one had caused the other.

That pause provided the opportunity. … If Imagination, then it was

creative imagination; if true, it was assuredly spiritual insight of a

rare quality.

He became aware that the twinkling eyes of his neighbour were

observing him keenly. For some moments evidently he had been

absent-mindedly staring down the table. He turned quickly and looked

at the doctor with frankness. This time it was impossible to avoid

speech of some kind.

“Following those lights that do mislead the morn?” asked Dr. Stahl

slyly. “Your thoughts have been travelling. You’ve heard none of my

last remarks!”

Under the clamour of the merchant’s voice O’Malley replied in a

lowered tone:

“I was watching those two halfway down the table opposite. They

interest you as well, I see.” It was not a challenge exactly; if the

tone was aggressive, it was merely that he felt the subject was one on

which they would differ, and he scented an approaching discussion. The

doctor’s reply, indicating agreement, surprised him a good deal.

“They do; they interest me greatly.” There was no trace of fight

in the voice. “That should cause you no surprise.”

“Me—they simply fascinate,” said O’Malley, always easily drawn.

“What is it? What do you see about them that is unusual? Do you, too,

see them `big’?” The doctor did not answer at once, and O’Malley

added, “The father’s a tremendous fellow, but it’s not that–-”

“Partly, though,” said the other, “partly, I think.”

“What else, then?” The fur-merchant, still talking, prevented

their being overheard. “What is it marks them off so from the rest?”

“Of all people you should see,” smiled the doctor quietly. “If a

man of your imagination sees nothing, what shall a poor exact mind

like myself see?” He eyed him keenly a moment. “You really mean that

you detect nothing?”

“A certain distinction, yes; a certain aloofness from others.

Isolated, they seem in a way; rather a splendid isolation I should

call it–-”

And then he stopped abruptly. It was most curious, but he was

aware that unwittingly in this way he had stumbled upon the truth,

aware at the same time that he resented discussing it with his

companion—because it meant at the same time discussing himself or

something in himself he wished to hide. His entire mood shifted again

with completeness and rapidity. He could not help it. It seemed

suddenly as though he had been telling the doctor secrets about

himself, secrets moreover he would not treat sympathetically.