“I’ll go get the bottle,” Rinaldi said. He went off up the stairs. I sat at the table and he came back with the bottle and poured us each a half tumbler of cognac. “Too much,” I said and held up the glass and sighted at the lamp on the table. “Not for an empty stomach. It is a wonderful thing. It burns out the stomach completely. Nothing is worse for you.” “All right.” “Self-destruction day by day,” Rinaldi said. “It ruins the stomach and makes the hand shake. Just the thing for a surgeon.” “You recommend it?” “Heartily. I use no other. Drink it down, baby, and look forward to being sick.”
