“LOOK, Judy.” Blacker Farragon stopped by one of the big windows and stared moodily across the hospital grounds. Even in their January bleakness they looked elegant and expensive, which they were. But his “Look, Judy” was strictly figurative. Black obviously wasn’t seeing beyond the bridge of his quite substantial nose. His heavy eyebrows were flat with irritation. “Looks like I’m going to have to stand you up tonight, Jude,” he said.
“That’s not a major tragedy.” The small sandy nurse with the triangular face of a young deer laughed quickly to hide her disappointment. She shifted the intravenous tray she was carrying. It was heavy, with that flask of glucose balanced on top, and she wondered ironically why a man who wouldn’t let you carry a loaf of bread across the street would practically let you carry a patient, once he got inside a hospital, rather than menace his professional dignity. “I’ll be sort of glad of a quiet night, anyway,” she added unnecessarily, and waited, wondering if he was going to explain.
“Wish I thought mine was going to be,” he grunted. “Celia wants me to come work on Ranny. At least”—he frowned harder—“that’s what she says she wants. Look.” He put his hand in his pocket as if reaching for something, but when it came out, after a pause, all it held was a cigarette. “Oh, the hell with it,” he said, and pulled matches quickly from his other pocket.
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