Whitehall reeked of expensive smoke.
Directly taken from colonial land at the expense of native people life's.
The long mahogany table in the Cabinet War Room bore scratches from a hundred forgotten meetings.
It was a Thursday, and the weather outside was as gray as the mood inside.
Stanley Baldwin sat at the head, hands folded, gaze steady but unreadable.
"We must ask ourselves," he began, "what matters more in 1935, the purity of principle or the prudence of position."
A cough from across the table.
First Sea Lord Chatfield, uniform crisp, ribbons neat.
"With respect, Prime Minister," he said, "we're not dealing with principle. We're dealing with steel. Shipyards. Docked hulls in Wilhelmshaven that didn't exist three years ago."
Sir John Simon, Foreign Secretary, nodded. "And they'll keep existing, unless we find a way to shape the expansion. A ratio. A cap."
Anthony Eden shifted in his seat.
Younger than the rest, sharper in suit and tone.
