"
Such at least was the spirit of my answers to invitations.
In practice I used to find it sufficient to send a telegram
that read: "Crushed with work impossible to get away,"
and then stroll back into the reading-room of the club
and fall asleep again.
But my coming here was my own fault. It resulted from
one of those unhappy moments of expansiveness such as
occur, I imagine, to everybody--moments when one appears
to be something quite different from what one really is,
when one feels oneself a thorough good fellow, sociable,
merry, appreciative, and finds the people around one the
same. Such moods are known to all of us. Some people say
that it is the super-self asserting itself. Others say
it is from drinking. But let it pass. That at any rate
was the kind of mood that I was in when I met Beverly-Jones
and when he asked me here.
It was in the afternoon, at the club. As I recall it, we
were drinking cocktails and I was thinking what a bright,
genial fellow Beverly-Jones was, and how completely I
had mistaken him. For myself--I admit it--I am a brighter,
better man after drinking two cocktails than at any other
time--quicker, kindlier, more genial. And higher, morally.
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