"You take for granted," she remarked, "that our race is the finest
fruit of civilisation."
"Certainly. Don't you?"
It's having a pretty good conceit of ourselves. Is every foreigner
who contests it a poor deluded creature? Take the best type of
Frenchman, for instance. Is he necessarily fatuous in his criticism
of us?"
"Why, of course he is. He doesn't understand us. He doesn't
understand the world. He has his place, to be sure, but that isn't
in international politics. We are the political people; we are the
ultimate rulers. Our language----"
"There's a quotation from Virgil----"
"I know. We are very like the Romans. But there are no new races to
overthrow us."
He began to sketch the future extension of Britannic lordship and
influence. Kingdoms were overthrown with a joke, continents were
annexed in a boyish phrase; Armageddon transacted itself in sheer
lightness of heart. Laughing, he waded through the blood of nations,
and in the end seated himself with crossed legs upon the throne of
the universe.
"Do you know what it makes me wish?" said Irene, looking wicked.
"That you may live to see it?"
"No. That someone would give us a good licking, for the benefit of
our souls."
Having spoken it, she was ashamed, and her lip quivered a little.
But the train had slackened speed; they entered a station.
"Rugby!" she exclaimed, with relief.
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