It seemed to the approaching Ethel that Miss Collins was always coming out of his room. “How is he today?” Ethel hospital-whispered. “Oh Mrs. Nicolson!” Miss Collins greeted loudly, as though saluting a relative thought dead twenty years. “Oh, he’s much better.” He was always much better. Miss Collins with a veiny, capable hand raised the cover from the largest plate. “Just had his lunch, ate his chop, the potato, but wouldn’t touch the carrots.” He was always not touching something. “Can I go in for a minute?” Ethel asked. “I mean he isn’t asleep?” “Sleep?” said Miss Collins, “That man?” Ethel tiptoed into the room. The head of Ray’s bed was cranked up to prop him into a sitting position. Ray sat. His light brown hair was neatly combed, as though by a mother, and the lapels of his polka-dot robe were drawn close to his almost beardless throat. He looked at Ethel, the dull expression on his face unaltered. It appeared as though it were his business to be sitting there just so.
