As Berry and I Were Saying Read Online Free

very good. On the outbreak of war I purchased a pair of braces – simple webbing and leather – for eighteen pence. And I gave up wearing those braces in 1938. That’s twenty-four years’ service for eighteen pence. Is anyone going to deny that those were the days?”
    “No one,” said everyone.
    Berry regarded his wife.
    “One evening we dined with old Stakely. He used to give his dinners at The Berkeley, because he lived in chambers in Jermyn Street. He stopped me the following week, as I was leaving the Club. ‘How much champagne,’ he said, ‘did we drink on Thursday last?’ It was a dinner for eight. After a slight calculation, ‘I’d put it at six,’ I said. ‘That’s what I make it,’ he said. He began to laugh. ‘They render my bill on Mondays. On Monday last they never rendered a bill. I stopped at The Berkeley on Tuesday, to ask them why. They sent for the Manager. “That’s quite right, sir,” he says. “You had cause for complaint.” “I know,” said I. “The woodcock was overdone.” (It had been – very slightly, and Stakely had made a fuss.) “What of that?” says I. “It was overdone, sir, and you had cause for complaint. In that case we make no charge.” “But the champagne,” I said. The Manager bowed. “Sir,” he said, “the dinner was not as it should be. Next time you honour us there will be no fault.” Now that’s what I call service. And it paid them hand over fist, for all of us swore by The Berkeley from that time on.”
    “No one will believe that,” said Daphne.
    “What does that matter?” said Berry. “We know it’s true.”
    “Berry’s right,” said I. “Whether people believe us or not is their affair. And if they don’t, I can’t blame them, for times have changed. A novel cost four and sixpence before the first war: whether I wrote it or Kipling, the price was the same. A bottle of excellent whiskey cost four and sixpence, too.”
    “One night,” said Berry, “I had come up for some dinner. I think it was at The Goldsmiths’ – I can’t be sure. Anyway, I met David —: he was an ARA. When the show was over, he asked me and one or two others back for a drink. He lived in St John’s Wood, as many artists did. It was not a very big house, but it was most attractive. And he had some beautiful things.
    “After he’d shown us round –
    “‘Who’s your landlord?’ said someone. ‘Or is this house your own?’
    “‘Well, I haven’t bought it,’ says David, ‘and who my landlord is, I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve lived here for twenty-two years and I’ve never been asked for rent.’
    “As soon as we could speak –
    “‘And rates?’ says somebody.
    “David shook his head.
    “‘Never a penny,’ he said. ‘I think I’m off the map.’
    “And that was a damned nice house – in — Road.”
    “Incredible,” said Daphne.
    “But true,” said Berry. “People used to live and let live before the first war. I remember it well.” He looked at me. “Carry on, partner,” he said.
    “Not after that,” said I. “I propose to retire.”
    “That’s right,” said my sister, rising. “It’s nearly half past twelve.”
    “Have a heart,” said Berry. “The golden fountain is just beginning to play.” Again, he regarded me. “’Member that night in Venice when you and the Duchess got lost?”
    “Neither do you,” said I. “Besides, it’s my turn.”
    “Yes?” said my wife.
    “Rowed past her palace,” said Berry. “And never found out their mistake for nearly an hour and a half. That’s Venice – that was.”
    “Oh, Boy,” said Jill.
    “That,” said I, “is romance. And romance is a tale whose scene and incidents are remote from everyday life.”
    Daphne had reached the door.
    “Do remember,” she said, “that Pony’s coming tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
    “My God, so he is,” said Berry. “Blast his neck.” He got to his feet. “Spain’s the country, you know. No business is done in