The wind at Whitehall always carries an unreasonable vigour, just like Viscount Palmerston's diplomatic policy towards weak countries.
Eld walked into the small café near the side entrance of the Navy Department White Building, and as soon as he pushed open the compartment door, he couldn't help but shiver and curse: "God bears witness, Arthur, if it weren't for your invitation, I absolutely wouldn't have come out for lunch in such wretched weather."
Arthur held the tea saucer and took a sip of hot red tea: "No matter how bad the weather, one must come out for meals, right? The Navy Department doesn't have a canteen, if you don't come out to eat, are you going to starve in the office?"
Eld took off his gloves, slumped onto a chair, and complained constantly: "True, there's no canteen, but the snacks I brought yesterday aren't finished yet. They'd suffice for a meal. If worst comes to worst, just have a clerk fetch me a takeaway from the café."
