Emperor. There is no road to Britain—until our neighbors are subdued. Then, for us, there will be no roads that do not lead to Britain.
Chancellor (suavely). Your Imperial Majesty, Britain will not join in just now.
Emperor. If I was sure of that!
Chancellor. I vouch for it. So well we've chosen our time, it finds her at issue with herself, her wild women let loose, her colonies ready to turn against her, Ireland aflame, the paltry British Army sulking with the civic powers.
Emperor. These wounds might heal suddenly if German bugles sounded. It is a land that in the past has done things.
Officer. In the past, your Imperial Majesty, but in the past alone lies Britain's greatness.
Emperor. Yes, that's the German truth. Britain has grown dull and sluggish; a belly of a land, she lies overfed; no dreams within her such as keep powers alive—and timid, too—without red blood in her, but in its stead a thick, yellowish fluid. The most she'll play for is her own safety. Pretend to grant her that and she'll seek her soft bed again. Britain's part in the world's making is done. "I was," her epitaph.
Chancellor. How well you know her, Sire! All she needs is some small excuse for saying, "I acted in the best interests of my money-bags." That excuse I've found for her. I have promised in your name a secret compact with her, that if she stands aloof the parts of France we do not at present need we will not at present take.
Emperor. A secret bargain over the head of France, her friend! Surely an infamous proposal.
Chancellor. The British Government will not think so. Trust me to know them, Sire. Your signature?