“Exactly, Sue. There's a fanatical strain in you. You came into the Village life fresh from college with a whole set of brand-new enthusiasms. Fanatical enthusiasms. The attitude toward life that most of us take for granted--like it, feel it, just because it is us--you came at us like a wild young Columbus. You hadn't always believed it.” “I always resented parental authority,” said she. “Yes, I know. I'm not sure your revolt wasn't more a personal reaction than a social theory. They tried to tie you down. Your father--well, the less said about him the letter. Preaching that old, old, false stuff, commercializing it, stifling your growth.” “Don't let's discuss him, Jacob.” “Very good. But the home was a conspiracy against you. His present wife isn't your mother, you told me once.” “No, she isn't my mother.” “Well”--he paused, thinking hard--“look here, Sue, what in thunder are you to do! You're no good without that mainspring, that faith.” She was silent, studying the table between them--silent, sober, not hostile. Life was not a joyous crusade; it was a grim dilemma. And an insistent pressure. She knew this now. The very admiration she felt for this strong man disarmed her in resisting him. He told the bald truth. She had fought him away once, only to involve herself with the impossible Peter; an experience that now left her the weaker before him. He knew this, of course. And he was a man to use every resource in getting what he wanted. There was little to object to in him, if you accepted him at all. And she had accepted him. As in a former crisis between them, he made her feel a coward. “It brings me back to the old topic, Sue. I could help you, if you could let me. You have fought love down. You tried to compromise on marriage. Nothing in that. Better live your life, girl! You've got to keep on. You can't conceivably marry Peter; you can't drift along here without a spark alight in you, fighting life; you can't go back home, licked. God knows you can't do that! Give me a chance Sue. Try me. Stop this crazy resistance to your own vital needs. Damn it, be human!” Sue, lips compressed, eyes misty, color rising a little, looked up, avoided Zanin's eyes; gazed as he had been doing, about the room. And coming in through the wide door she saw the long figure of Henry Bates, whom friends called the Worm. She watched him, compressing her lips a little more, knitting her brows, while he stood looking from table to table. His calm face, unassertive, reflective, whimsical in the slight squint of the eyes, was deeply reassuring. She was fond of Henry Bates. He came across the room; greeted Zanin briefly; gripped Sue's hand. “Sit down, Henry,” said she. He stood a moment, considering the two of them, then took the chair a waiter slid forward. “I'm here on a curious mission, Sue,” he said. She felt the touch of solemnity in his voice and gave him a quick glance. “I've been sent to find you.”