It was
not their fault, he knew. They were creatures of their environment, just
as he had been. But he had outgrown all faith in creeds and forms before
a quickening sympathy with man, a clearer understanding of human
complexities. And as he recalled them his associates had been slaves to
creed and form, worshippers of the letter of Christianity while
unconsciously they violated the spirit of Christ. Thompson had no wish
to renew those old friendships, not even any curiosity about them. So he
passed them by and went to see his aunts, who had fed and clothed him,
to whom he felt a vague sort of allegiance if no particular affection.
It seemed to Thompson like reliving a very vivid sort of dream to get
off a street car at a certain corner, to walk four blocks south and turn
into the yard before a small brick cottage with a leafless birch rising
out of the tiny grass plot and the bleached vines of sweet peas draping
the fence palings.
The woman who opened the door at his knock stood before him a living
link with that dreamlike past, unchanged except in minor details, a
little more spare perhaps and grayer for the years he had been gone, but
dressed in the same dull black, with the same spotless apron, the same
bit of a white lace cap over her thin hair, the same pince-nez astride a
high bony nose.
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