e newest houses, those in the
_Kurfuerstendamm_, for instance, have every "improvement"--central
heating, lifts, gas cooking stoves, sinks for washing up, and bathrooms
that are a reality and not a mere appearance. These bathrooms, I am
assured, can be used without several hours' notice and the anxious
superintendence of the only person, the head of the family as a rule,
who understands the heating apparatus. Berlin, like Mr. Barrie's
Admirable Crichton, has found out how to lay on hot and cold. It has
found out about electric light too, and it might teach London how to
use the telephone. Berlin talks to its friends by telephone as a matter
of course, asks them how they are, if they enjoyed the _Fest_ last
night, whether if you call on Tuesday they will be at home. Perhaps
when Mr. Wells goes to Berlin he will forsee a reaction, a revolt
against the incessant insistent bell that respects no occupation and
allows no undisturbed rest. It is a hurried generation that uses the
telephone so much, for the letter boxes are emptied eighteen times in
twenty-four hours, and if the post is not quick enough or a telegram
too expensive for all you want to say you can send a card by the tube
post.

Berlin is not the city of soldiers that the English fancy pictures it.
English people, English little boys, for instance, who would like to
see all their lead soldiers come to life, must go to one of the
smaller garrison towns, where in every street and every square they
will watch men on the march and at drill. In those quarters of Berlin
not occupied by barracks the population is civilian. You see the grey
and the dark blue uniforms everywhere, but not in masses and not at
work. The people rush like children to follow the guard changed at the
Schloss every day; just as they might in London, where soldiers are a
rare spectacle. In a smaller town the army is more evidently in
possession. It fills the restaurants, occupies the front row of the
stalls at the opera, prevails in public gardens, and holds the
pavement against the world. But Berlin to all appearances belongs to
its citizens, and provides for their profit and convenience. They fill
its multitude of houses. They say they make its laws and order its
progress. At any rate they live in an agreeable, well-managed city,
full of air and light, and kept so clean that most other cities seem
slovenly and grimy by comparison. To go suddenly from Berlin to
Hamburg, for instance, gives you a