pleasure of feeling of blessedness—which was dispelled when they awoke hour later stiff and cold?)
It was after long ruminations to the above effect that June, startled, had a sudden thought, as she lay in bed one night.
“It’s all because we are too small to know how to be happy. Some people take whiskey to be happy—father usually has the smell of it about him, and then there are Mother Grace’s highballs when she’s feeling low. It’s because they want to escape from reality. Religion, or whiskey, or dope. . .
“I suppose I’m always worrying about my unhappiness because I’m introspective.” (It was a new word to June and she liked it.) “To be happy you’ve got to be retrospective and quit worrying about your relation to things.
“Somehow, I believe that Fabre is happy.” With this sudden leap from the general to the specific, she fell asleep.
And then, with the coming of Henrietta, she forgot about her conclusions, and religion became more of a pose than ever.
That Sunday afternoon, by the time the dishes were washed and dried and put away, and Adele had brushed out the dining-room to equalize her share of the work with that of June who had the pots and pans to wash and dry, June was looking forward with pleasurable anticipation to her Sunday
[44]
