Sir John Simon stood with his back to the fire, squinting at the latest telegram from Berlin through a pince-nez that always made him look like a man who didn't want to see things too clearly.
Baldwin, seated in the leather chair with his tie loosened and the edges of his uniform slightly rumpled, kept his eyes fixed on the fire.
"He calls it," Simon said, scanning the message with a half-smile, "'A civilized step toward mutual naval understanding.'"
He raised an eyebrow. "That's bold, coming from a man who's never worn a uniform or captained a bathtub."
Baldwin didn't react to the jibe.
He simply nodded.
"What's he offering?" Baldwin asked, voice measured.
Simon exhaled sharply, the paper crinkling in his hand. "They'll accept the thirty-five percent cap, relative to Royal Navy tonnage. But..."
He hesitated.
