“I'm not much on generalizing, Sue,” observed the Worm, “but sometimes I have thought that there's a lot of bunk in this freedom theory--'self-realization,' 'the complete life,' so on. I notice that most of the men and women I really admire aren't worried about their liberty, Sometimes I've thought that there's a limit to our human capacity for freedom just as there's a limit to our capacity for food and drink and other pleasant things--sort of a natural boundary. The people that try to pass that boundary seem to detach themselves in some vital way from actual life. They get unreal--act queer--_are_ queer. They reach a point where their pose is all they've got. As you say, it's a taint. It's a noble thing, all right, to light and bleed and die for freedom for others. But it seems to work out unhappily when people, men or women, insist too strongly on freedom for their individual selves.” But Sue apparently was not listening. Her cheeks--they were flushed--rested on her small fists. “Henry,” she said, “it's a pretty serious thing to lose your religion.” “Losing yours, Sue?” “I'm afraid it's gone.” “You thought this little eddy of talk was real life?” She nodded. “Oh, I did.” “And then you encountered reality?” Her eyes, startled, vivid, now somber, flashed up at him. “Henry, how did you know? What do you know?” “Not a thing, Sue. But I know you a little. And I've thought about you.” “Then,” she said, her eyes down again, suppression in her voice--“then they aren't talking about me?” “Not that I've heard. Sue. Though it would hardly come to me.” She bit her lip. “There you have it, Henry. With the ideas I've held, and talked everywhere, I ought not to care what they say. But I do care.” “Of course. They all do.” “Do you think so?” She considered this. “You said something a moment ago that perhaps explains--about the natural boundary of human freedom.... Listen! You knew Betty Deane, the girl that roomed with me? Well, less than a year ago, after letting herself go some all the year--it's fair enough to say that, to you; she didn't cover her tracks--she suddenly ran off and married a manufacturer up in her home town. I'm sure there wasn't any love in it. I know it, from things she said and did. All the while he was after her she was having her good times here. I suppose she had reached the boundary. She married in a panic. She was having a little affair with your friend--what's his name?” “Hy Lowe?” The Worm smiled faintly. The incorrigible Hy had within the week set up a fresh attachment. This time it was a new girl in the Village--one Hilda Hansen, from Wisconsin, who designed wall-paper part of the time. But he realized that Sue, with a deeper flush now and a look in her eyes that he did not like to see there, was speaking.