“Oh, I say,” exclaimed Cassels, “I didn’t know you had any whisky there. Do give me some.”
“Certainly. I’ll get you some soda.”
When Gascoyne had left the room, Bruton turned to his friend.
“What on earth are you drinking whisky for at this time of the morning?”
“Well, the great thing is not to let your friend think he is doing anything unusual. He knows we are watching him carefully, and a watched man always poses. He is suffering, and perhaps he is a little unhinged—all the more reason why we should not only make no comment on what he does, but should behave ourselves as nearly as possible in the same way that he does.”
“I wonder,” said Bruton.
Gascoyne entered with three or four bottles of soda-water.
“Oh, really, you shouldn’t have troubled,” protested Cassels, “for I’d much rather have it neat. I’m sick of red wine, and they hadn’t even a drop of whisky on board.”
And he helped himself to a glassful.
“How shall we spend the morning, Cyril?” asked Bruton. “Shall we drive to the Acropolis and sleep for an hour in the shade of the Parthenon?”