"I can't wait," said Mr. Foley in a lower tone and strenuously. "Suggest something quick."
The manager could be heard thinking at the end of the live wire. At last he said, "Oh, anything." Mr. Foley used a horrible word and put back the receiver.
He went back to his golfing friend who was drinking some port steadily with cheese, and said: "Look here, that friend of mine I have just been telephoning to says he wants another title."
"What for?" said the golfing friend, his mouth full of cheese.
"Oh, for his book of course," said Mr. Foley sharply.
"Sorry, I thought it was politics," answered his friend, his mouth rather less full. Then a bright thought struck him.
"Well, it's about art and ... climate, you know."
"Why, then," said the friend stolidly, "why not call it 'Art and Climate'?"
"That's a good idea," said Mr. Foley, stroking his chin.
He hurried indecently, turned the poor golfing friend out, hurried up to town in his motor in order to make them call the book "Art and Climate." When he got there he found the real publisher, who hummed and hawed and said: "All this changing of titles will be very expensive, you know." Mr. Foley could not help that, it had to be done, so the book was called "Art and Climate," and then it was printed, and seventy copies were sent out to the Press and it was reviewed by three papers.
"Mr. Charles Foley has written an interesting essay upon the effect of climate upon art, upon such conditions as will affect it whether adversely or the contrary. The point of view is an original one and gives food for thought."
Mr. Foley thought this notice quite too short and imperfect.
The second paper had a column about it, nearly all of which was made out of bits cut right out of the book, but without acknowledgment or in inverted commas. In between the bits cut out there were phrases like, "Are we however to believe that ..." and "Some in this connection would decide that...." But all the rest were bits cut out of his book.
The third review was in _The Times_, and in very small type between brackets. All it did was to give a list of the chapters and a sentence out of the preface.
Mr. Foley sold thirty copies of his book, gave away seventy-four and lent two. The publisher assured him that books like that did not have a large immediate sale as a novel did; they had a slow, steady sale.