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‘I will do what I can–that is simply up to the doctor … That is beyond my jurisdiction … Oh, hello, Hattie, no, I can’t now. Look, have you got any nurse that’s good with alcoholics? There’s somebody up at the Forest Park Inn who needs somebody. Call back will you?’

She put down the receiver.’Suppose you wait outside. What sort of man is this, anyhow? Did he act indecently?’

‘He held my hand away,’ she said, ‘so I couldn’t give him an injection.’

‘Oh, an invalid he-man,’ Mrs Hixson grumbled.’They belong in sanatoria. I’ve got a case coming along in two minutes that you can get a little rest on. It’s an old woman–‘

The phone rang again.’Oh,
hello, Hattie…. Well, how about that big Svensen girl? She ought to be able to take care of any alcoholic…. How about Josephine Markham? Doesn’t she live in your apartment house? … Get her to the phone.’ Then after a moment, ‘Joe, would you care to take the case of a well-known cartoonist, or artist, whatever they call themselves, at Forest Park Inn? … No, I don’t know, but Dr Carter is in charge and will be around about ten o’clock.’

There was a long pause; from time to time Mrs Hixson spoke:

‘I see … Of course, I understand your point of view. Yes, but this isn’t supposed to be dangerous–just a little difficult. I never like to send girls to a hotel because I know what riff-raff you’re liable to run into…. No, I’ll find somebody. Even at this hour. Never mind and thanks. Tell Hattie I hope that the hat matches the négligé….’

Mrs Hixson hung up the receiver and made notations on the pad before her. She was a very efficient woman. She had been a nurse and had gone through the worst of it, had been a proud, idealistic, overworked probationer, suffered the abuse of smart internees and the insolence of her first patients, who thought that she was something to be taken into camp immediately for premature commitment to the service of old age. She swung around suddenly from the desk.

‘What kind of cases do you want? I told you I have a nice old woman–‘

The nurse’s brown eyes were alight with a mixture of thoughts–the movie she had just seen about Pasteur and the book they had all read about Florence Nightingale when they were student nurses. And their pride, swinging across the streets in the cold weather at Philadelphia General, as proud of their new capes as débutantes in their furs going into balls at the hotels.

‘I–I think I would like to try the case again,’ she said amid a cacophony of telephone bells.’I’d just as soon go back if you can’t find anybody else.’

‘But one minute you say you’ll never go on an alcoholic case again and the next minute you say you want to go back to one.’

‘I think I overestimated how difficult it was. Really, I think I could help him.’

‘That’s up to you. But if he tried to grab your wrists.’

‘But he couldn’t,’ the nurse said.’Look at my wrists: I played basketball at Waynesboro High for two years. I’m quite able to take care of him.’

Mrs Hixson looked at her for a long minute.’Well, all right,’ she said.’But just remember that nothing they say when they’re drunk is what they mean when they’re sober–I’ve been all through that; arrange with one of the servants that you can call on him, because you never can tell–some alcoholics are pleasant and some of them are not, but all of them can be rotten.’

‘I’ll remember,’ the nurse said.