Читать книгу The Lost Weekend онлайн

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In the back of the cab that was rushing him down to the Village he smiled to himself--smiled in triumph. How easy it was. Poor Mrs. Wertheim--she wouldn't have turned him down, of course. He knew Europeans enough to know that. He had played the aristocrat before the peasant--the peasant who never dared refuse the aristocrat anything; who expected nothing less; who felt it an honor to be imposed upon by that privileged charming irresponsible class; who kept himself and his family in lifelong debt to guarantee the aristocracy its birthright; who would have lost faith, perhaps, if he and his fascinating kind should settle down and become sober, industrious and productive, like themselves: who smiled indulgently, admiringly, even affectionately, at foibles which, in their own children, would have deserved nothing but a beating. This, for the brilliant moment, was his vision of himself and Mrs. Wertheim now that he had twenty more dollars in his pocket. "Jack's, in Charles Street," he called out, and sat back, pleased with the glimpse of highlife he had given the grateful Mrs. Wertheim.