He imagined himself to be a diplomatist set apart by a special dispensation to watch the end of diplomacy, and pretty nearly the end of the world, in a horrid democratic upheaval.

His prophetic and doleful despatches had been for years the joke of Foreign Offices.

He was said to have exclaimed on his deathbed (visited by his Imperial friend and master): "Unhappy Europe! Thou shalt perish by the moral insanity of thy children!" He was fated to be the victim of the first humbugging rascal that came along, thought Mr Vladimir, smiling vaguely at Mr Verloc.
"You ought to venerate the memory of Baron Stott-Wartenheim," he exclaimed suddenly.
The lowered physiognomy of Mr Verloc expressed a sombre and weary annoyance.
"Permit me to observe to you," he said, "that I came here because I was summoned by a peremptory letter.

I have been here only twice before in the last eleven years, and certainly never at eleven in the morning.

It isn't very wise to call me up like this.