sermons of German pastors, and those amazing manifestoes of German
professors, flying straight in the face of historic documents--"scraps of
paper"--which are there, none the less, to all time--for us, these things
are only not comic because, to the spiritual eye, they are written in
blood. But to return to the "ruins," and this "English industry" which
during the last six months has taken on so grim an aspect for Germany.

My guide, an official of the Ministry, stops the motor, and we turn down a
newly made road, leading towards a mass of spreading building on the left.

"A year ago," says my companion--"this was all green fields. Now the
company is employing, instead of 3,500 work-people, about three times the
number, of whom a large proportion are women. Its output has been
quadrupled, and the experiment of introducing women has been a complete
success."

We pass up a fine oak staircase to the new offices, and I am soon
listening to the report of the works superintendent. A spare, powerful man
with the eyes of one in whom life burns fast, he leans, his hands in his
pockets, against the wall of his office, talking easily and well. He
himself has not had a day's holiday for ten months, never sleeping more
than five and a half hours, with the telephone at his bedhead, and waking
to instant work when the moment for waking comes. His view of his workmen
is critical. It is the view of one consumed with "realisation," face to
face with those who don't "realise." "But the raid will do a deal of
good," he says cheerfully.

"As to the women!"--he throws up his hands--"they're saving the country.
They don't mind what they do. Hours? They work ten and a half or, with
overtime, twelve hours a day, seven days a week. At least, that's what