At that luncheon-table, within a few yards of us, sits Russia, the new Russia, raising his head after a thousand years' sleep, watching the times, weighing them, realising his own immeasurable strength, pointing his inevitable finger along the road which the Russia of to-morrow must tread.

There isn't a man in that great country so much to be feared to-day, from our point of view, as the Grand Duke Augustus.

And look, too, at the same table, within a few feet, Simpson, of you and of me--Selingman, Selingman who represents the real Germany; not the war party alone, intoxicated with the clash of arms, filled with bombastic desires for German triumphs on sea and land, ever ready to spout in flowery and grandiloquent phrases the glory of Germany and the Heaven-sent genius of her leaders.

I tell you, Simpson, Selingman is a more dangerous man than that.

He sits with folded arms, in realms of thought above these people.