He had done precisely what a weak man does, precisely what he had passionately resolved never to do.  He had found life hard, and he had compromised with it.  A minute routine pressed upon him, and he had suffered that routine to swamp his perspective, to drown out his fires.  It was a good and useful work that he did:  he never doubted that.  To take the pain from a sick body, to put a coat on a bare back, this was worth a man’s doing.  But none knew better than he that that body would grow sick again, that back once more wear naked:  and all the while the untouched causes of these wrongs festered and reinfected and spread, and a fig for your Settlements and your redoubled “relief.”  Was there not a bay-tree that flourished, and had he not been summoned in a vision to lay an axe to its roots?  Behold, he gave his youth to spraying at the parasites upon a single small leaf.

And was it only the grinding round of work that had brought him to this compromise?  Was it possible that personal considerations had seduced him, as Samuel O’Neill appeared to hint?  That would be base, indeed....

But no ...  No, his mind, though it seemed without mercy to-night, would acquit him of that.  If he had been seduced, it was by a voice in him, confused, it might be, but strong nevertheless, and not dishonest.  He had thought that perhaps people could be more gently acquainted with their responsibilities, that in their hearts they wanted to correct their own mistakes.  He had asked who appointed him a judge over men....

And now there were articles to write, to publish in November, to begin to prepare now.  Hard articles they must be, that broke heads or hearts, implied faiths, too, and did not care.  And in the young man’s ears there rang, and would not cease, the cry of a girl in great sorrow:  “You’ve never meant anything but trouble to me since the first minute I saw you."...  And again, in another voice:  “I really didn’t mean to do anything so bad."...

As if he hadn’t known that....

He was alone in the world, and by that token he was a lonely man.  He had no mother or brother or sisters.  He had no wife or children....  No, nor would have this side the undiscovered country....

Abruptly the young man rose from his seat at the secretary; stood, pushing back his hair.  Twenty-seven years old he was, a lame slum doctor in a fire-new suit of Prince serge, lately bought cheap at a sale; but he had a face that people sometimes turned to look at in the street.

And he spoke aloud, in a voice that might have sounded queer if there had been anybody to hear it: 

“Don’t I know they’re doing the best they can, all the time?  Seems to me I’ve had that proved ...  Give ’em a chance, and they’re all good....”

* * * * *

Far in the stillness there sounded the sweet mad voice of the Garlands’ clock.  It struck seven, and then two, and then fell silent.  V. Vivian glanced at his watch.  It seemed to be quarter to twelve, though he did not see how that was possible.  He opened his office door, and stood listening.  Presently he stepped through; went walking without noise down the long hall, which was pitch-black but for a dim haze of light just perceptible at its extreme farther end.  When he came to this small patch, the young man lifted the curtain, and stood motionless.