The Shadow of Great Britain

The gentleman nodded slightly in thanks, but said no more.

But that’s exactly Lewis’s nature; when others ignore him, his interest only grows stronger.

The One Penny Journalist’s professional instinct silently awakened as he intentionally inquired about the stranger’s information: "I see the food on your table is hardly touched... Is the meal here not to your liking?"

Upon hearing this, the gentleman, as if knowing peace was not to be had today, shook his head, put down the menu and said, "When the French have supper, it’s just a plate of cold salad, a few slices of appetizer fruits, a tender partridge, a light omelet, topped at most with a bland soup and a lean steak. Yet even so, sometimes the French are startled awake in nightmares, sitting up from bed, vowing never to eat supper again. Italians spend three and a half pence to buy pasta to fill their stomachs. Spanish spread garlic on a slice of bread, then thank God after eating and fall asleep with a cigarette in their mouth. Rough Germans prefer cold cuts and salad for supper, washing it down with beer for a simple meal. As for a supper like what’s served at Evans Restaurant, I truly don’t know which country’s guests they intend to sell it to. Maybe the Americans? But Americans hardly speak of having supper, just as they never seriously have breakfast, lunch, or dinner, instead always indulging, with a constant cigarette in hand."

Lewis was stunned by the long list of country names and dietary comparisons, listening dumbfounded, inadvertently showing some timidity in front of Arthur.

"Haha!" Lewis was in a daze for a while before finally laughing out loud, slapping the table and nearly overturning the wine glass: "I thought only we journalists liked to compile foreign customs, but it turns out you’re the real expert. You wouldn’t be a geographer, would you? Or perhaps you’re in the import-export business?"

"Geographer? Import-export business?" The man shook his head: "No, I’m not."

"That’s even stranger." Lewis leaned forward: "I’ve been running the news for more than a decade, and anyone who can talk about the culinary habits of France, Italy, Spain, Germany, Britain, and even America is either a travel writer or stationed abroad for some trade company. Your words are more vivid than any article I’ve read in the London News Magazine."

The man looked at him and smiled slightly: "Is that so? Even if your words are mere pleasantries, I must thank you, because at least they prove my past diplomacy work wasn’t for nothing."

"Diplomacy work?" Lewis almost thought he heard wrong.

He instinctively straightened his back, as if suddenly realizing he might be conversing with an aristocrat who had seen countless monarchs and ministers.

"My God! You’re... you’re a diplomat?" Lewis carefully repeated: "This... this is truly a rare encounter in London, sir! Then you must know quite a few dignitaries, right? Ministers, envoys, members of parliament... Oh, even Her Majesty the Queen!"

"I do know some people." The gentleman smiled slightly and replied indifferently: "But most of the time, I’d rather they didn’t know me. That way, if something happens, they don’t immediately push it onto me."

"Remarkable!" Lewis solemnly raised his glass with a somewhat ingratiating smile: "Then you must have witnessed many extraordinary scenes. We poor scribes can only rely on hearsay to imagine the world, while you truly walked into it."

Lewis racked his brains thinking back to various political cartoons in magazines, striving desperately to find one that could match the gentleman in front of him.

"So are you back in London for a vacation this time? Or are you about to be sent abroad again?"

"Regrettably, neither a vacation nor sent abroad." The respectable gentleman sighed: "I offended some people in the circle, so the Foreign Office kicked me out."

"Kicked out?" Lewis widened his eyes as if hearing the most outrageous thing.

He quickly put down his glass, raising his voice a degree: "Those fools! There are already enough fools in London, I didn’t expect there to be more hiding in those few buildings on Whitehall Street!"

Lewis’s expression carried exaggerated indignation: "Sir, you see, they claim to be the brains of the nation, and what then? They stay locked in the office all day yawning over maps, with no understanding of the complexities and subtleties of foreign affairs! How can they possibly accommodate someone as well-traveled as you? These fools love nothing more than ostracizing people smarter than themselves."

The gentleman sipped his wine lightly, smiled indifferently, and didn’t respond.

Lewis, however, grew more enthusiastic: "Am I wrong? They put on airs every day, as if the world should revolve according to their rules. And what are their rules? Documents, approval slips, official language! In this city, promotion relies not on talent but connections; achieving merit relies not on courage but flattery. If you were truly ostracized for being too forthright, it only proves your character nobler than theirs. I bet you told the truth in some major event and embarrassed those old foxes, right?"

The gentleman turned his glass half a circle, seeming to think for a while before speaking slowly: "Perhaps. Diplomacy is sometimes riskier than writing news. Writing a line wrong at most means the article won’t pass; but if we misplace a period, we might have to pay with a war."

"That further proves I’m right!" Lewis slapped the table, emotionally charged: "A person as upright as you should be the one Britain uses! I’m all too familiar with that bunch; they’d rather use a bunch of bootlicking incompetents than trust a practical doer who understands the world."

The gentleman looked at him with a smile: "You seem to know quite a bit about Whitehall matters?"

"Know?" Lewis laughed heartily: "What don’t us journalists know? We’ve all crouched at Whitehall’s door; how many guards the Foreign Office has, who among the Treasury’s staff is slacking off, who enters and leaves the Prime Minister’s Office’s back door on specific days, we’re clear about it all. But knowing too much is useless, writing it will get banned, not writing it will starve us. Haha, that’s the charm of London’s journalism!"

The gentleman slightly raised his eyebrows and asked with a smile: "Do you have to rely on running everything yourself? Wouldn’t that tire you out? Haven’t you hired a few apprentices or kept a few informants for information?"