As Berry and I Were Saying by Dornford Yates, 1952.

I can't help reading it all the way through because I am a completist, but, man, this is a terrible book. This is the dregs of Yates' writing I mentioned earlier. All his faults are on parade with nary a redeeming quality. The inside look at the British courts of the 20s could possibly be considered one, but it's buttered with self-flattery, and Yates' vision seems so clouded with sentiment and bigotry that I can't even trust it's an accurate representation of what he witnessed. Two particularly annoying aspects: A). Berry, Daphne, and Jill lapping up Boy's (extravagantly dull) stories as though they've never heard them before (these people have supposedly lived in each other's pockets since childhood). B) Frequent references to incidents too shocking to relate. Geez, tell or don't tell, but don't try to have it both ways.