Jimmie had formed the habit of cutting over to the hospital on his walk to work or his return from work, of rapping on his brother’s door and sitting in the easy chair for a few minutes. This time, remembering that Biff’s room was bare, like the rooms of most slow-healing invalids whose friends and relatives have grown inattentive, he stopped at a florist’s and bought a bunch of chrysanthemums. Because his arms were filled with the flowers Jimmie kicked open the door of the room.
He found Biff locked in an embrace with a nurse. The same pretty nurse who had been kidding with Dr. Heiffler on the night Jimmie had conferred with him. They broke apart. The nurse flushed—but not much; it was a defiant flush, a tantalizing flush, rather than the swift reddening one might have expected. She looked boldly at Jimmie, patted Biff’s cheek, and went out of the room.
Biff chuckled. “You’re the darnedest guy! Always popping into things!”
“Not that I want to! You people are always doing things. What’s the idea? She’s a poor working gal, Biff. You’re too irresistible to take advantage of her. Too much dough.
Too much family.”
Biff laughed harder. “Take advantage of Genevieve? Look. How many times does a girl have to be taken advantage of before she’s out of the minor league?”
Jimmie unwrapped the flowers. He was still fairly unruffled. “Not a nice thing to say.”
“All my pals have had dates with Genevieve. Can’t imagine how I overlooked her, myself. She’s pretty, eh?”
“Sure.” Jimmie sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’re pretty, too, Biff. Nice eyes—State football hero—whatnot. I suppose the gals in your gang won’t come in and neck with a pair of plaster casts. Still—a nurse! Tchk-tchk!”
“You take her out, Jimmie. She’s a nice dish. Do you good. You look like a cold baked potato—more every day. Too much work. And Genevieve knows all the answers.