eship and the perfect freedom. But I've had a glimpse
into his methods--Abbie Esterzell, you know--”

The Worm nodded.

“--and it isn't a pretty story. I've watched the women, too--the free
lovers. Henry, they're tragic. When they get just a little older.”

He nodded again. “But we were talking about you, Sue. You're not all
words.”

“Yes I am. All talk, theories, abstractions. It gets you, down here. You
do it, like all the others. It's a sort of mental taint. Yet it has
been every thing to me. I've believed it, heart and soul. It has been my
religion.”

“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,” s