CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really. ... You see, my Uncle Antony
was a rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to
put it in its proper place. The place he put it in was--er--a
little below golf and a little above classical concerts. If a man
said to him, "Would you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?"
he would say--well, it would depend what he was doing. If he were
going to have a round at Walton Heath--

CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way.

CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find
many to agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was
nothing, however contemptible, that a man would not do for money.
One day I suggested that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently
foolish name attached to it, somebody might be found to refuse it.
He laughed at the idea. That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I
said; "leave the same silly name to two people, two well-known
people, rival politicians, say, men whose own names are already
public property. Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched
him. "Denis, my boy, you've got it," he said. "Upon what vile
bodies shall we experiment?" We decided on you and Mr. Meriton.
The next thing was to choose the name. I started on the wrong
lines. I began by suggesting names like Porker, Tosh, Bugge,
Spiffkins--the obvious sort. My uncle--

CRAWSHAW (boiling with indignation). How _dare_ you discuss me with
your uncle, Sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way
whether I am to be called--ah--Tosh--or--ah--Porker!

CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't bear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a