Donaldson's hand rested a moment on Arsdale's shoulder.
"Yes," he said, "I like to think you have been of some service even to her."
Arsdale rose to his feet.
"If I could think that—if I could look her in the eyes again!"
"Look her in the eyes! Keep those eyes before you! Never get where those eyes can't follow you! And as you look take my word for it that even there by a strange chance you 've done your good."
The man in Arsdale was at the top. For a second he faced Donaldson as one man should face another. Then he tottered and fell back in his chair, covering his face with his hands.
"It's too late," he groaned, "God, it's too late!"
Donaldson seized him by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet—not in anger, not in contempt, but in his naked eagerness to make the man see. Half supporting him, he drew him to the window. He threw it wide open.
"Too late!" he cried, waving his hand at the brisk scene upon the street. "Too late! It is n't too late so long as there's a living world out there, so long as there's a man or a woman out there! It isn't too late because there's work for you to do, work for others that you 've shirked. What is it? I don't know, but it's there. Dig around until you find it. Maybe to-day it was only to give a nickel to the blind beggar at the corner, maybe it was only to help an old lady across the street, maybe it was to do some kindness to your sister. I don't know what it was, but I know it was something, and went undone because of you."
Arsdale, leaning against the window-sill, strained towards Donaldson.