turmoil. They were like figures seen in a dream.
All the houses were skeletons from which the flesh had been rabidly torn.
We glanced down a narrow street, arrested by the sight of two women emerging from a cellar beneath a heap of ruins. One of them carried two chickens, nicely browned. The other had a tin of fried potatoes. A group of military police. men leaning against the opposite wall moved languidly forward and took the appetizing food. They smiled and the women smiled, but as far as we could tell no one spoke. The entire transaction had an air of good-natured stealth.
"Women in Arras!" we cried.
Williams nodded.
A few have stayed. It's orders during a bombardment for every one to remain in the cellars."
“The cooks ought to have decorations," some one said.
“They wouldn't think so," Williams answered. “The French are hard to scare, and they love their homes. Last time I was in here I saw a French soldier. I asked him what in the world he was doing. Said as calmly as you please that he was home on his first permission since the beginning of the war. Fancy that! Taking your vacation from hades in the same climate. You bet the Boches couldn't interfere with his
