“Fifty-fifty, although the accent’s on the social side. Don’t ask me to fix the drinks. I’m feeling a little under the weather. I didn’t sleep good last night.”
“Who were you out with? “
“Nothing like that.” I reached gratefully for the highball and saluted her with it.
She came over and flopped on the divan. Her housecoat fell back. My eyes had time to pop before she adjusted it.
“You know I never expected to see you again.” she said, holding the tumbler of whisky and ice so her chin could rest on the rim. “I thought you were one of those hit-and-run artists.”
“Me? Hit-and-run? Oh, no, you’ve got me dead wrong. I’m one of those steady, faithful, clinging types.”
“I bet—wait until the novelty wears off.” she said a little bitterly. “Is that drink all right?”
“It’s fine.” I stretched out my legs and yawned I certainly felt low enough to creep in a gopher’s hole and pull the hole in after me. “How long do you expect to go on nursing the Crosby girl?”
I said it casually, but she immediately gave me a sharp, surprised look.
“Nurses never talk about their cases,” she said primly, and drank a little of the highball.