within her a renewing of her old eagerness towards life. Here was something real that the unknowing and unseeing had called “native humour” and “Negro comedy.” But, somewhat vaguely, she felt the thing went deeper than that. She speculated as to the lasting value of machines and all that they brought—whether a radio over which came “Yes, We Have No Bananas” added measurably to the sum total of happiness. She was wondering yet when sleep overcame her. …
In the days that followed there came to her out of the tangled maze of her thoughts a clearer conception of the causes underlying her discontent. She loved the comforts of her home, from the shiny brass knocker on the snowy white front door to the full-length mirrors in which she loved to gaze at her rounded form after her morning bath in the big blue-and-white porcelain tub. But she wondered if the sombre, cynical companions she met in her home and in other places were worth the price she was paying for these luxuries. People who were playing at enjoying life but whose unhappiness shone through all they did or said. She wondered. …