"When love and marriage and children are all there is to life?" he asked.
She caught her breath.
"You see, she did not know that then. She thought all those things called for the sacrifice of her freedom."
"What freedom?" he demanded again. "It's when we're alone that we're slaves—slaves to ourselves. A woman alone, a man alone, living to himself alone—what is there for him? He can only go around and around in a pitifully small circle—a circle that grows smaller and smaller with every year. Between twenty and thirty a man can exhaust all there is in life for himself alone. He has eaten and slept and traveled and played until his senses have become dull. Perhaps a woman lasts a little longer, but not much longer. Then they are locked away in themselves until they die."
"Peter!" she cried in terror.
"It's only as we live in others that we live forever," he ran on. "It is only by toiling and sacrificing and suffering and loving that we become immortal. It is so we acquire real freedom."
"Yes, Peter," she agreed, with a gasp.
"Could n't you make her understand that?"
"She does understand. That's the pity of it."
"And Covington?"