LORD B. Always at your Majesty's disposal.
QUEEN. I wish to confer upon the Sultan of Turkey my Order of the Garter.
LORD B. Ah! how generous, how generous an instinct! How like you, Madam, to wish it!
QUEEN. What I want to know is, whether, as Prime Minister, you have any objection?
LORD B. "As Prime Minister." How hard that makes it for me to answer! How willingly would I say "None"! How reluctantly, on the contrary, I have to say, "It had better wait."
QUEEN. Wait? Wait till when? I want to do it now.
LORD B. Yes, so do I. But can you risk, Madam, conferring that most illustrious symbol of honour, and chivalry, and power, on a defeated monarch? Your royal prestige, Ma'am, must be considered Great and generous hearts need, more than most, to take prudence into their counsels.
QUEEN. But do you think, Lord Beaconsfield, that the Turks are going to be beaten?
LORD B. The Turks are beaten, Madam…. But England will never be beaten. We shall dictate terms—moderating the demands of Russia; and under your Majesty's protection the throne of the Kaliphat will be safe— once more. That, Madam, is the key to our Eastern policy: a grateful Kaliphat, claiming allegiance from the whole Mahometan world, bound to us by instincts of self-preservation—and we hold henceforth the gorgeous East in fee with redoubled security. His power may be a declining power; but ours remains. Some day, who knows? Egypt, possibly even Syria, Arabia, may be our destined reward.
(Like a cat over a bowl of cream, England's Majesty sits lapping all this up. But, when he has done, her commentary is shrewd and to the point.)