These scenes. And after all, flirting with the postman, it was unfortunate, and a squalid story. Now the man was so soaked in the whisky, or whatever it was he drank, that he was a topic of conversation. For that alone one ought to be grateful to him. But Mamma was right for once, it was disgraceful. But it was sad too.
“. . . poor, poor Father.”
“Yes, June, I am so sorry.”
“You aren’t really.”
There was a pause, and then he said:
“I think perhaps suffering is rather fine, don’t you?”
Was it? He did not know. At any rate, it was a way out of blindness. She began again:
“But why wasn’t I allowed to wear nice dresses and stay in the Vicarage and go to dances an’ have some fun? Why have I got to scrub floors all day and cook meals and look after the house with never a word of thanks? It isn’t fair.”
“But you and I are really rather lucky . . .”
“Lucky! You . . .?”