As Berry and I Were Saying by Dornford Yates Page B

Club: you never came out of Fleet Street: you know no other author and you know no critics at all. You’ve never lectured in America. You never fought for the Communists in the Spanish Civil War, and you have never patronized the Café Royal. You have always lived your own life and have always sat down to meals at the accepted time. You dislike publicity, and you’ve never used your pen-name except on the covers of your books. In short, you have broken every rule that Fleet Street lays down. You are a black marketeer. Yet, as I say, to the less exacting, you issue a furtive appeal. They derive an unlawful pleasure from reading your rotten books. And I think it only right that they should be shown the horrid nature of the ground upon which they venture to tread.”
    “I’ve been speaking off the record,” said I.
    “Bung it in,” said Berry. “Mother knows best. And what’s the Newgate Calendar done?”
    “One moment,” said Daphne. “Titles. What shall you call this book?”
    “CONVERSATION PIECE,” said Berry.
    “Glorious,” said Jill.
    “So it is,” said I. “And it’s exactly right. Unhappily, it has been used – as the name of a play.”
    “What does that matter?” screamed Berry. “Is every inspiration I have to be cast into the draught?”
    “If it’s second-hand – yes.”
    “But I never knew it had been used. I created the blasted thing.”
    “Sorry,” said I. “But it’s been created before. And now try again.”
    Berry expired. Then–
    “‘Try again.’ This isn’t a spelling-bee. Flashes of genius are not to be controlled. What about REGURGITATION?”
    “Whatever’s that mean?” said Jill.
    “A gushing-back,” said Berry. “You see the idea? Our memories have gushed back.”
    “I don’t like the sound of it,” said Daphne.
    “Neither,” said I, “do I. It’s sometimes used of drains, which have been stopped up.”
    “I know,” said Berry. “CUD.”
    “CUD?” screamed Daphne. “You can’t call any book CUD.”
    “But that’s what it is,” said Berry. “This book is the cud which Boy and I are chewing. When a cow crops grass, it doesn’t masticate; it shoves it straight into its stomach. Then it lies down, and the stomach regurgitates the grass into its mouth for it to chew. That grass is then called cud. The analogy is exact.”
    “You really are bestial,” said Daphne.
    “All right,” said Berry. “You choose one.”
    “What about PRIVATE VIEW?”
    “That’s quite good,” said I.
    “It’s one of your chapter-headings.”
    “I know. But it suits the book.”
    “I think it’s rotten,” said Berry. “PRIVATE VIEW. What of?”
    “Well, it hasn’t been used,” said I, “–so far as I know.”
    “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Berry. “And I don’t want to be the first. You might as well call it PUBLIC PRINT.”
    “Well, I think it’s good,” said Jill. “It is a private view of the things you both saw and heard.”
    “I doubt if we’ll beat it,” said I. “Of course, it isn’t as good as CONVERSATION PIECE.”
    “Not in the same suburb,” said Berry. “What if that has been used as the name of a play?”
    “That knocks it out,” said I.
    Berry expired again. Then –
    “What about THE BLAST IN THE BELLOWS?”
    “People wouldn’t get it,” I said, laughing.
    “I don’t see what it means,” said Jill.
    “There you are,” I said. “He has, my sweet, THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS in mind.”
    “PERSONAL PROPERTY,” said Daphne.
    “That’s a very good title,” said I, “but it wouldn’t fit. You see, we’re trying to suppress our personalities. As Berry and I were saying, before we began—”
    “There you are,” roared Berry. “There you are. AS BERRY AND I WERE SAYING. And can you beat that?”
    “Well done,” said I. “And that’s how a title should come.”
    “Quite perfect,” said Daphne.
    Berry looked round.
    “Let me put,” he said, “an oratorical question. That means, let me say, a question