one of the great moments of history. Germany's last card will be
on the table. It will be war to the knife. Either she will starve
Great Britain or Great Britain, will starve her.

These are problems for the leaders, who have the further task of
keeping the population hopeful on an alarmingly decreasing diet.
Superficially, or until you want something to eat, or a ride in a
taxicab, Berlin at night is gay. But you somehow feel that the
gaiety is forced. London at first sight is appallingly gloomy is
the evening, and foreigners hardly care to leave their hotels. But
I find that behind the gloom and the darkness there is plenty of
spontaneous merriment at the theatres and other places of
entertainment. There is plenty of food, little peace talk, and
quiet confidence.

Across the North Sea, however, great efforts are made by the German
Government to keep up the spirits of the people. No public
entertainer need go to the war at all, and the opera is carried on
exactly as in peace time, though I confess that my material soul
found it difficult to enjoy Tristan on a long and monotonous diet
of sardines, potatoes, cheese and fresh-water fish--chiefly pike
and carp. A humorous American friend used to laugh at the
situation--the brilliantly dressed house, officers in their
extremely handsome grey uniforms, ladies, some of them with too
many diamonds, and--very little to eat.

At the slightest military gain the bells of victory peal wildly,
and gay flags colour mile after mile of city streets, flags under
which weary, silent women crawl in long lines to the shops where
food is sold. A bewildering spectacle is this crawling through