"Happy Thanksgiving."
Like hell, House prides himself on thinking, is it anything of the sort.
Tired, he is watching the snow as, below, figures scurry through the streets, off to break their necks ice-skating, to send blood pressure rocketing with their festive eating; to enjoy irresponsibly. He knows the drill; the Unhappy, Thankless task of his profession is to treat the ungrateful wretches. Agreed?
A mortified Chase nods; a paper packet- twisted sheepishly behind his back as he approached- is briskly pocketed. He makes his excuses, gets lost, and, in a few weeks' time, concedes to wear the socks himself.