Lives on the wrong side of the tracks, but with a face and a chassis like that a dame can cross ’em—”
“Aren’t you being just a shade-hard-boiled, Biff?”
“You sore?”
Jimmie walked over to the window. “Not exactly.”
Biff laughed sharply. “You know, sometimes the family is right about you. You’re a meddlesome cluck. And too darned high-and-mighty. If you’re trying to lecture me on personal behavior—quit! And the next time you come over here—knock.”
“All right.”
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You aren’t hurting ’em.” Jimmie smiled—but he was aware that his feelings were hurt.
“Y ou get your legs broken,” Biff said, with a tinge of self-pity. “Y ou try lying around in a hospital, week in and out. You see what you’d do if a sophisticated babe came in and offered to make the time go a lot faster.”
“All right, wise guy,” Jimmie said. “All right. I’ll go quietly.” He did go. He supposed that he had been meddlesome and toplofty. It wasn’t any of his business. Still, it wasn’t right, either. And Jimmie felt that not-right behavior was everybody’s business. So, he decided, maybe he was priggish. Maybe he was a blithering fool. He strode along the cold street toward the paint works and he thought of Audrey and his temples swelled. The world was cock-eyed—and doing itself no good by being that way.