Читать книгу The Lost Weekend онлайн

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He was enjoying himself now. He speculated on how he appeared to the others. If anybody was wondering about him or looking at him, they must have decided that here was that rarity, an American who knew how to drink. He drank quietly and alone--an apéritif at that. He took his time, and did not bother with others. Obviously he was used to drink, had probably had it all his life, at home--wines at table, liqueurs after dinner, that sort of thing. Drink was no novelty to him--nothing to order straight, or in a highball, gulp down at once so you could order another, get in as many as possible between now and midnight.... This was the impression he believed he gave and was consciously giving. With money in his pocket, with several days to go before Wick came home, he had plenty of chance to play the solitary observant gentleman-drinker having a quiet time amusing himself watching other folk carouse, the while he sipped gin-vermouth which, for all they knew, might have been a Dubonnet or a sherry.